


Serpent's Lair

by Soledad



Series: The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord [5]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Torchwood
Genre: ACD canon story rewrite, Anthea is really an android from outer space, F/M, Immortal Ianto Jones, The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord, Time Lord Mycroft Holmes, Time Lord Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is reunited with his ex-wife, Mary - but it is not the reunion he's hoped for. A modern-time retelling of the ACD classic "The Specled Band".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Spice Bazaar

**Author's Note:**

> The “Spice Bazaar” was equally inspired by the Bollywood film “The Mistress of Spices” and by my visit in “Spicy’s Gewürzmuseum” in Hamburg, Germany.  
> John’s ex-wife, Mary Morstan, or rather Mira Marsti, is very vaguely based on Tilo from the film.  
> The part about the Roylott family is taken from the ACD novel “The Speckled Band”. Obviously.
> 
> Beta read by my good friend, Jenn Calaelen, who I owe my sincerest thanks.

**PART 01 – THE SPICE BAZAAR**

Life became a bit tedious at 221B after their short run-in with the Chinese mafia – the case that John, in a fit of temporary insanity, called “The Blind Banker” in his blog. He was recovering from his injuries suffered during his short captivity – Sarah had decided to break up with him after all, despite the trip to New Zealand – and Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t have a case.

A Sherlock without a case was an even more insufferable flatmate than usual. It meant violin concerts every night and body parts in various stages of decomposition in every available corner of the fridge, yelling at the telly and verbally abusing John’s blog. Not to mention frequent explosions in the kitchen, Mrs Hudson’s angry protests – complete with the recurring threat to put all the damage on their rent.

It also meant potential danger nights and unexpected visits from Mycroft.

John was thoroughly fed up with the situation. He was hurting all over, even his bruises had bruises (it happens when Chinese gangsters kidnap you, mistaking you for your mad flatmate, then tie you up and use you for target practice, he explained to Mike Stamford later), and he was still depressed over the failure of his first tentative relationship since coming back from Afghanistan. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet.

Of course, to have _that_ he should have moved out of 221B, as far away from Sherlock as humanly possible.

And if all that wouldn’t have been enough, it had been almost ten days in a row that Mrs. Hudson could not stop complaining about the pain in her arthritic hip. Even simple walking was a great effort for her. Climbing the stairs to visit her _boys_ and spoil them with tea and biscuits as was her wont – despite her regular declarations of being their landlady, _not_ their housekeeper – had become an impossibility. Especially as her herbal soothers didn’t seem to work any more.

“You really should give standard pain medication a try, Mrs. Hudson,” John tried to persuade her for the umpteenth time… with the same results as always. She adamantly refused to listen.

“Have you read those dreadful warnings they put into each package, dear?” she asked. “Well, _I have_ ; and I won’t touch _anything_ that comes with such warnings for the world! Why, the side effects are ten times worse than the illness itself.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock, in an uncharacteristic gesture of tenderness, kissed her on the cheek. “You shouldn’t believe everything that is listed in those warnings. The company simply lists every _possible_ side effect they can think of, just in case some idiot would bring a lawsuit against them. It would be illogical to assure that one single preparation could have such varied – and in parts opposing – side effects.”

“Well, I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said doubtfully. “Those people ought to know what they’re talking about…”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re complete idiots – like practically everyone else,” Sherlock waved off her concerns. But this time she wasn’t willing to believe him.

“If they’re so ignorant that they don’t even know what their medicine can cause, I’m not taking it,” she stated stubbornly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer something, caught John’s tiny but emphatic shake of head and shut up again. John turned to their landlady.

“Have you ever tried spices, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked.

The old lady shook her head in surprise. “No, I cannot say that I have, dear. Are they good for pain relief?”

“Some of them are, if prepared and mixed the right way,” John explained. “I’m not an expert myself, but I know someone who might help – or tell you honestly if she can’t.”

“ _She_?” Sherlock’s eyebrow climbed to the roots of his hair. “Is she another one of your boring girlfriends?”

“No,” John replied flatly. “My ex-wife.”

“You were _married_?” Sherlock stared at him in open-mouthed shock.

If it was caused by the news itself or by the fact that he had failed to deduce such an important event from John’s former life was hard to tell. John shrugged.

“Yeah; before I’d enlisted and been posted to Afghanistan. I haven’t met her for years, but I presume she’s still running the _Spice Bazaar_ in East End. It used to belong to her mother, but Mary and her twin sister, Julia, ran it together. Mrs Morstan was born in the Bunt community in Kerala, you see; her family moved to England when she was a young girl.”

“Does it mean your ex is half-Indian?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that all sorts of people live in London in these days,” John answered dryly. “But Mary is one hundred per cent Indian, actually. The surname of her father was originally Marsti; he Anglicised it upon coming of age, thinking that he’d fit in better with an English-sounding name.”

“Did it work?” Sherlock seemed doubtful about that. John shrugged again.

“Can’t say; he’d already been dead for a decade or so when I met Mary. But considering that they run a spice bazaar in East End I don’t think integration worked out too well for him. I wonder if it still exists.”

He opened up his laptop, started the search engine and typed in name and address of the spice shop, only using two fingers as always.

“That’s odd…” he murmured absently.

“ _What_?” sensing a mystery coming his way, Sherlock perked up his ears.

“The _Spice Bazaar_ still exists,” John said, “but it says here that the owner is a certain Mira Marsti.”

“And?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

John looked up from the laptop, worry lines etched into his forehead. “That’s Mary’s original, Indian name. To my knowledge, though, she never actually used it. It isn't even on any of her official documents.”

“She could have changed her name back, though,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “True. But why would she do so? She never _liked_ that name. She wasn’t that big on Indian tradition either, although both her mother and her stepfather tried to push her in that direction. Her _and_ Julia both, in fact.”

“She has a stepfather?” Sherlock’s voice sharpened with interest. “Some sort of self-declared Hindu saint or something?”

“Or something,” John pulled a face. “But he isn’t a Hindu, actually. He’s as British as they come: a certain Dr Roylott.”

“You mean Dr _Grimesby_ Roylott of Stoke Moran, the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England?” asked Sherlock in surprise.

John looked back at him with equal bafflement. “You know him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not personally, but I know of the _family_. It was once among the richest in England; the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north and Hampshire in the west. In the eighteenth century, however, four successive heirs were of dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the then two-hundred-year-old house, which was itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the pitiful life of an aristocratic pauper. His only son, though, had the common sense to adapt himself to the new conditions. He sold the house to a relative and went to Calcutta, entering diplomatic service, and his progeny followed the same path until the dissolving of the Empire. In fact, they remained there even afterwards.”

John shook his head in tolerant amusement. “For somebody who regularly deletes the useful facts of daily life, you’re an amazing source of useless trivia.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “Being well-versed in the history of prominent families can be very useful. Not that I've ever put my knowledge about the Roylotts to practical use, though. As far as I know, Dr. Grimesby Roylott was the first one to return to England.”

“I wish he hadn’t,” John commented bitterly. “Without him in our way Mary and I might still be together.”

“He was against your marriage?” Sherlock frowned. “Why on earth would he oppose it?”

“Cause I’m not a Hindu,” John replied.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock still wasn’t getting it. “So what?”

“Dr Roylott was very much enamoured in the Indian lifestyle and culture,” John explained. “If I’m not mistaken, he’d even converted to some little-known Hindu sect and tried to convert his wife and his stepdaughters, too. He always nagged them to follow the strict dietetic rules, to celebrate the Hindu festivals, to wear traditional clothing… that sort of thing. Julia was more amenable to his wishes, but Mary wouldn’t let him tell her what she could or couldn’t do… at least at first.”

“What changed?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “All I know is that when I enlisted, she went back to her family. I got the divorce papers during my third tour in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock digested the massive info dump for a few minutes, with his hands stapled under his chin in their usual praying position. John waited patiently for the incredible Holmesian brain to do its thing. Finally the detective looked up.

“Do you think he forced her to divorce you?” he asked.

John shrugged. “I’m not sure. He’d certainly try – he hated me with a passion for some reason I could never understand. But Mrs Morstan at least loved her daughter; she’d not allow him to force Mary into anything she didn’t want.”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock contemplated the answer for a while. “In that case I think it would be better when I accompanied Mrs Hudson to the _Spice Bazaar_. They wouldn’t tell you a thing anyway; and my observation skills are far superior.”

John just rolled his eyes good-naturedly and went to the kitchen to make some tea.

~TBC~


	2. The Spice Bazaar

**PART 02 – INCOGNITO**

Sitting in his study, Mycroft Holmes frowned while rewatching the previous day’s CCTV footing, provided courtesy of the bison skull in the main living room of 221B Baker Street.

“I think we should supervise this visit a little more closely, Ianto,” he said. “Just in case the new pawns of the game prove dangerous.”

“Of course, sir,” Ianto replied politely. “I’ll go myself.”

Mycroft frowned again. He seemed to frown a lot since he’d re-gained his younger brother. “What if one of them spots you? They both know you.”

“That won’t be a problem, sir,” Ianto said calmly. “I’ll go incognito.”

“Incognito?” Mycroft repeated in surprise. “How are you planning to do that?”

“I won’t be wearing a suit, sir,” Ianto explained matter-of-factly. Which made a lot of sense, actually. People usually identified his suits, not himself.

“Aaah,” Mycroft said with interest. “Do you think that would work for me, too?”

Ianto thought about that for a moment. “Actually, sir, in your case it might be enough to leave the umbrella at home. Who would recognise you without it?”

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “Most astoundingly right, Mr. Jones.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ianto said impassively. “I’m trying.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain that you do,” Mycroft pushed a button on his desk. “Anthea, I’ll need everything Mummy can find about a certain Dr Grimesby Roylott of Stoke Moran. Preferably yesterday. Or the day before.”

“Understood, sir,” the android replied crisply.

Mycroft nodded, knowing that he’d get the requested information in record time. Then he looked at Ianto.

“Well, Mr. Jones, start working on that disguise of yours. I’d prefer if you could get over there before my brother or Doctor Watson… and their housekeeper, of course.”

“Landlady, sir, as she keeps emphasizing it,” Ianto corrected, and off he went to prepare himself for the reconnaissance mission.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The _Spice Bazaar_ was bedded between an Indian restaurant and a gift shop dealing in oriental rugs, water pipes, enamelled copper dishes – cases, cups, saucers, plates and trays – and other knick-knacks. The frames of its front door and shop window were painted a plain, unadorned white, and white were the letters displaying the shop’s name on the large, grey-green sign above them.

The inside of the shop couldn’t be seen as the shop window was screened by a bead curtain, so Ianto decided to go right in. He had a very convincing story prepared, the beauty of which being that he didn’t even have to lie. He _did_ suffer from stress-induced headaches from time to time, and the usual painkillers no longer worked for him.

Not since he came back from the death. He wondered sometimes if Jack’s frequent headaches had originated from the same source.

A small messing bell signalised the opening of the door and his senses were assaulted mercilessly as soon as he entered. It was like stepping into a different world. The _décor_ of the shop was kept in deep reds and golds, the tables and shelves made of dark, polished wood, and Indian sitar music was playing softly in the background.

And there were spices, literally _everywhere_. In huge glass jars, in open bowls, shaped like colourful little pyramids, hanging from the ceiling in the form of dried bouquets and wreaths of from the supporting wooden beams in long strings. Garlands of red chilli peppers hung from the beams in lush, thick clusters like some bizarre, oversized Christmas ornaments; on plates woven from straw dozens of spicy little biscuits were stapled in heaps, all different in size, shape, flavour or colour.

The mixed smells of hundreds of spices, together with the smoke of burning incense sticks, was so thick he could almost taste it on his tongue. He couldn’t imagine how _anyone_ could live and work here day after day – but perhaps, given enough time, one could get used to it,

“Hello,” he called out, a little uncertainly. “Anybody here?”

“Over here,” a soft female voice with a slight Indian accent replied, and from the depth of the shop the most beautiful woman emerged that Ianto had ever seen – and _that_ included Tosh and Lisa.

She was presumably in her late twenties, of middle height and slim, though not in the starved rat way of supermodels or American film stars, and surprisingly fair-skinned for her origins. Ianto knew, of course, that among the many different nationalities of the Indian subcontinent there were some that didn’t match the raven-haired, bronze-skinned cliché, but knowing it in theory and seeing it with his own eyes were two different things.

The woman had light brown hair; the kind that consisted of many different shades of brown, with green-gold highlights like the bark of a young oak and yet seemed to create a homogenous colour in the final effect. She had parted it in the middle and wore it in one thick braid that reached down to the small of her back. Her gentle oval face was dominated by a pair of large, almond-shaped, striking blue eyes, framed by long lashes under fine, arched eyebrows, and full lips.

She wore the traditional sari and short-sleeved top in pale yellow and a golden chain around her bare midriff and multiple bracelets, as well as a gold ring with a small ruby on the middle finger of her right hand. She moved with that singular grace only professional dancers – or those who had started at a very young age – would display.

Folding her hands in the gesture of the traditional _namaste_ greeting, she gave a slight bow and asked Ianto how she could be of assistance.

“Well, I’m not sure you can,” Ianto replied. “But I thought I’d give it a try. You see, I get these awful headaches, and none of the usual painkillers seem to help.”

“They often don’t,” she said softly. “Especially if the illness is rooted in a wounded soul rather than in any physical malady. And your soul is wounded, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes… in the stiffness of your bearing… which is part of the problem, I presume.”

“Does it mean I ought to try massage?” Ianto asked, a little disappointed.

He already _had_ tried it. It didn’t work.

“You can certainly try it, but it would require a healer specialised in such things,” she replied. “I’m not one; we aren’t even allowed to touch any of our customers, or any other person for that matter.”

“What do you mean _we_?” Ianto frowned.

She smiled at him. “Being a mistress of spices is a privilege with a millennia-long tradition among my people,” she explained. “Like all other privileges, though, it comes with a price. Those who get chosen because of their ability to draw on the healing power of the spices may no longer set foot outside their shops and have to spend their entire life in solitude.”

“Is it worth it?” Ianto asked; then, realising that he’d been rude, he started apologising at once. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it seems too high a price…”

“People have lived like this throughout human history,” she reminded him. “Think of Catholic nuns; this is not all that different.”

“It is, if it’s not a personal choice,” Ianto said.

She gave him that sad, beautiful, resigned smile again.

“Sometimes we cannot choose our destiny,” she said. “Sometimes destiny chooses us. Now, let me see what I can do about those headaches of yours.”

_Destiny, my arse_! Ianto thought while she mixed some powdered root with a few other ingredients and spread some of the mix across his palms with he help of a small wooden spoon.

“Rub it into your skin thoroughly,” she instructed. “This should lessen your tension and help you relax. Do this twice a day, in the morning before starting work and in the evening before going to bed.”

She filled the rest of the mix into a small paper bag and sealed it to keep the aromas inside. The practiced ease with which she performed those small tasks showed that she’d done this for a long time.

“Come back if it doesn’t work,” she then said, “although that is unlikely. I’m randomly mistaken in these things.”

“What do you mean with _these things_?” Ianto asked.

“Everybody has a spice that is specifically his or her own,” she explained. “One that helps them and protects them. My task as the mistress of spices is to find the right one for my customers.”

“But how do you know which one would that be?” Ianto was fairly sceptical about such things, to tell the truth.

She shrugged. “I don’t know _how_ I know it. I just _do_. That’s part of the reason why I’ve been chosen,” she paused. “May I ask how you found your way to my shop? We rarely get customers from outside the Indian community.”

“The brother of my… employer has a flatmate who recommended you to their landlady because of her arthritic pains,” Ianto saw no reason why he shouldn’t tell the truth. “And since he’s a doctor, I thought I might give the spices a chance, too. His name is Dr John Watson; I understand that the two of you used to know each other.”

He deliberately kept the definition vague, watching her reaction very closely. A less astute observer might have missed the fleeting pain that hushed across her beautiful face; the pain that she suppressed again in a second.

“You must be mistaken,” she said with the same impersonal friendliness as before. “I’m quite sure that I’ve never known anyone by that name.”

She was clearly lying but Ianto found it better _not_ to call her upon it. She must have had her reasons; perhaps she was being watched. If her stepfather was truly such a tyrant as Dr Watson had described him, she might even be afraid of him.

“I must have misunderstood something then,” he said agreeably. “Doctors tend to know about alternate medicine; and Doctor Watson is an open-minded one. There is a reason why his blog has become so popular in such short a time. Well, I must be off. What do I owe you for this?” he lifted the paper bag briefly.

She named the modest sum and he paid in cash; the shop didn’t seem to have a credit card reader. Then he thanked her again and left, not wanting to run into any potential customers from 221 Baker Street. Knowing Sherlock’s incurable curiosity, it would be only a matter of time until he’d show up, with or without Mrs Hudson in tow.

A matter of a _very_ short time, most likely.

~TBC~


	3. What Should We Do With Mary Morstan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really short chapter. It seemed to be the best place to end it. Also, apologies to the JohnLock shippers; I’m not one of them.

**PART 03 – WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH MARY MORSTAN?**

“That was a masterstroke, Ianto,” Mycroft said with something akin respect, which was a rare thing from a Time Lord towards a mere human. “You gave her the means to contact Doctor Watson if she wants, without telling her too much.”

“That remains to be seen, sir,” Ianto replied. “I haven’t seen a single computer in that shop of hers; and I find it unlikely that she’d own an i-Pod or a smartphone. She seems to be leading a fairly simple life, whether it is her own choice or not.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll find a way if she wants to. Women always do,” Mycroft paused for a moment before addressing the actual problem on his mind. “The question arises, of course, whether we should allow Dr. Watson any further contact with his ex-wife or should we interfere with the potential reheating of their relationship?”

Ianto gave him a slightly disapproving look.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think it’s our right to decide,” he said, sharper than any employee had ever dared to speak to the almighty Mycroft Holmes. “Besides, why _should_ we want to interfere?”

“Because Sherlock _needs_ him,” Mycroft replied calmly. “If he chooses to return to his wife, what will become of Sherlock, all on his own? You know how dangerous that could be.”

“And once he’s restored to his true self, what will become of John?” Ianto asked accusingly. “You know the Doctor better than I do. He’d just leave on a whim as always, leaving all sorts of unfinished business behind.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m used to pick up the pieces after him.”

For several long second Ianto didn’t answer to that, his stormy blue eyes darkening in suppressed anger.

“May I speak freely, sir?” he finally asked.

Mycroft raised a superior eyebrow. “Don’t you always?”

“No, sir;” Ianto replied dryly. “I usually try to be polite.”

That earned him a surprised bark of laughter from Mycroft.

“And quite successfully, too, I’d say,” the British Government said. “Very well. Do speak freely.”

“Sir, I understand that you’re worried about Sherlock’s well-being,” Ianto began, choosing his words carefully, “and rightly so. He’s notoriously unable to deal with things alone; without having someone to boss around. His transformation hasn’t changed _that_. But the one _I am_ worried about is John Watson. His life is centred around Sherlock already enough. His job is constantly endangered cos he runs off with Sherlock all the time; and so far all his relationships have failed, for the same reason. It’s not _healthy_. He shouldn’t allow Sherlock to fill every corner of his life like that.

“Like you’ve allowed Harkness to fill _yours_?” Mycroft asked silkily.

That was a low bow, even he had to admit it, but Ianto wouldn’t react with as much as a wince.

“There’s a significant difference, sir,” he said flatly. “Jack loved me; in his own twisted, imperfect and very _human_ way he still does, somewhere out there, or else he wouldn’t be so devastated. Sherlock doesn’t love John; not like _that_ , not with an emotional attachment. And once he becomes the Doctor again and drops aboard the TARDIS, all that’s left of John will be an empty shell. He deserves better.”

“Sherlock might take John with him, as a companion,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Yeah, and a fat lot of good _that_ would do for John,” Ianto replied with a very un-gentlemanlike snort. “The only undamaged companions I’ve seen so far, and I _have_ seen my fair share of them, were Ian and Barbara – and even they only cos they had each other and decades to recover from their adventures with the Doctor. I’m curious, sir – is your species capable of forming emotional attachments at all? Or do you procreate by cloning?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Don’t be ridiculous. Cloning isn’t the right means of procreation. There’s always some genetic damage after a few generations.”

“Well, yes, that explains a lot,” Ianto deadpanned.

Mycroft raised that imperial eyebrow again.

“Watch your tongue, Mr. Jones. But, to answer your original question, we do form emotional attachments – during our original life, while we’re quite young. It never survives the first regeneration, though.”

“Just like Tolkien’s Elves, huh?” Ianto simply couldn’t resist.

Mycroft nodded with dignity. “I think that would be an apt comparison, yes. Now, let the medical supplies you were given by Ms Morstan be analysed by Anthea before you’d use them again. I don’t really think they’d contain anything harmful but one cannot be careful enough with unknown substances.”

“Do you think I should give this… _thing_ a try, sir?” Ianto asked. “I mean, could it actually work?”

Mycroft shrugged. “A great deal of healing takes place in the head, Ianto. Besides, she seems to have some natural healing abilities. Some humans do, although in the modern era these have been almost entirely forgotten. I wonder, though…”

“You think she’s an alien, sir?” Ianto asked doubtfully.

Mycroft shook his head. “No; I think she’s got the ability to make people do what she tells them to do. Like a case of mild empathy or telepathy. It’s rare, but it happens, in the East more often than in the West. Although… well, we’ll see. Further surveillance of the _Spice Bazaar_ might be necessary.”

Ianto nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll arrange it.”

~TBC~


	4. All Hearts Are Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. John’s trip to New Zealand, an effort to reconcile with Sarah, is mentioned in his semi-official online blog.

**PART 04 – ALL HEARTS ARE BROKEN**

Two days later – still without a case – John and Sherlock were still bickering about which one of them should accompany Mrs Hudson to the _Spice Bazaar…_ assuming she would be willing to go with either of them. The fact that they were also having tea at the same time bore no particular importance. John was stressed _and_ he was British, hence: tea.

And Sherlock _always_ accepted tea when John was the one making it.

Due to the worsening of Mrs Hudson’s arthritis, there were no biscuits to have with their tea. John _had_ considered buying some while getting milk, but his finances were precarious at best at the moment; the trip to New Zealand ate up his meagre reserves. Plus, he didn’t feel up to another row with the chip and PIN machine. Not even if he was to use Sherlock’s card.

_Especially_ not if he was to use Sherlock’s card.

The differences between their respective financial situations were glaringly obvious. Sherlock always had more than enough money. John didn’t. Therefore John was the one always worrying about the rent, the bills, the groceries and other mundane stuff Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to care about.

Why Sherlock needed a flatmate in the first place remained a mystery to John. He’d tried to ask once, but Sherlock had given him a long-suffering glare, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Mycroft”, and that was it. John guessed that Sherlock’s overbearing, meddlesome, insufferable brother had kept him on a short leash financially, as a form of control. Or to make it harder for him to get drugs – which was probably the same thing.

Coming to think, Sherlock was every bit as overbearing, insufferable and meddlesome as his brother. Why on Earth did he insist on going with Mrs Hudson? Despite the – perhaps inevitable – failure of their marriage, John ached to see Mary again. The disastrous date with Sarah, his half-hearted efforts of a shared holiday in New Zealand (okay, perhaps visiting an old Army mate hadn’t been the best idea, but he really didn’t have the means to pay for a hotel room, too) had been his first conscious efforts to move on – with very little success.

People thought that it had been Sherlock’s demanding omnipresence that ruined his chance with Sarah. People, as Sherlock often and correctly declared, were idiots. The true reason was that he still saw Mary whenever he closed his eyes in female company, and no woman in their right minds would live with _that_.

Besides, Sarah deserved better. She was a classy lady, who even managed to remain friends with him, for which John was grateful.

But the chance to see Mary again made him feel… yes, what _did_ it make him feel like? He couldn’t really tell. Early on in their relationship Mary had made him giddy with happiness, like a schoolboy. Now, whenever he thought of her, all he could feel was a deep ache; a yawning emptiness in his guts that no-one else could fill.

And Sherlock, that great git, didn’t want to let him go and see her. He wanted to study the _spices_ in Mary’s shop, if all things! Well, he could experiment on something else! John was not going to let this chance slip through his fingers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He was just about to tell his flatmate this in no uncertain terms when the doorbell rang. Knowing hat Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to answer it, John got to his feet with a heartfelt groan and hobbled to the door. Fortunately for him, Mrs Hudson had been on her way out and let their visitor in with the same turn of the front door.

One fleeting glance at the sharp three-piece pin-striped suit made John recognise said visitor before he could have seen his face. It was the neat, ever-polite young Welshman whom Sherlock called _Mycroft’s ninja butler_.

That it wasn’t merely a form of Sherlock’s peculiar sense of humour John had realised when he got the open invitation to use the shooting range Mycroft’s gorillas preferred (together with the licence to keep his not-quite-legal Army pistol). Once he’d met the mild-mannered Welshman there and watched him go through dozens of targets with calm, almost frightening accuracy, he began to wonder whether Ianto Jones was merely a crack shot or a trained killer.

Admittedly, the latter was hard to imagine right now, watching the young man (and just how old _could_ Ianto be? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?) coming up the stairs, impeccably clad and perfectly groomed, with a sealed briefcase in his hand.

“Doctor Watson,” he said politely. “I hope I’m not disturbing anything?”

John just shook his head. He liked Ianto well enough – the young man was never anything but infallibly polite to him, always calling him _Doctor_ Watson, which John appreciated cause it made him feel as if he still were the surgeon he used to be before the Taliban would shoot his career to hell – _and_ he made fantastic coffee.

Still, there was something about him that gave one the creeps.

“So, what does Mycroft want _this_ time?” he asked, ‘cause it was highly unlikely that Ianto would have come on his own volition. Under that smooth, polite surface he seemed to dislike Sherlock on a deep, personal level.

Besides, Sherlock had already turned down several of Mycroft’s requests regarding stolen documents and blackmailed government members, declaring them “hideously boring”.

“Nothing,” Ianto replied. “Mr Holmes merely sent me to deliver this,” he opened the briefcase and handed John a thick manila folder. “He believes you’d find it… interesting.”

“Me or Sherlock?” John asked in suspicion.

“Both of you, I reckon, “Ianto answered. “You _really_ should read it carefully before either of you would barrel into the _Spice Bazaar_. I already paid the place a visit and, well… read this first.”

“And what the hell _is_ this?” John eyed the folder warily, as if expecting it to bite him in the nose.

“Full background check on a certain Dr Grimesby Roylott,” Ianto said. “Well, as full as we were able to collect the data in such short a time; the good doctor guards his privacy very jealously. I think you’ll find it… educational. Good day, Doctor Watson.”

And with that, Ianto turned on his heel and marched down the stairs again. With one hand on the doorknob, however, he turned back for a moment.

“Oh, and I think you should know that your ex-wife denies to have ever known you.”

“Wait!” John called after him. “When did you see her? Is she all right? What else did she say?”

“Later, Doctor Watson,” Ianto opened the door. “Read the file first; then, if you need my help, call me.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“What did Jeeves want?” Sherlock was sprawled all over the sofa, clearly still bored to death, wearing only his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. “Mycroft whining again to find him some lost diplomat or the stolen crown jewels of Ultima Thule or whatnot?”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock delighted in calling Ianto _Jeeves_ , which the young man probably hated but never gave the mad detective the satisfaction to actually show his annoyance. Ianto Jones had the best poker face on the planet.

“No, he sent me – _us_ – a thick folder with data about Dr. Roylott and a warning to read it before going to the _Spice Bazaar_.”

That woke Sherlock’s interest. “What? Mycroft offers data voluntarily? The world must be ending. And why would he have a file on your ex-wife’s stepfather?”

“Doesn’t he have a file on _everyone_?” John asked back.

“Good point,” Sherlock admitted. “Still, why Dr. Roylott? And why would he send it us?”

“I don’t know,” John said tiredly. “Perhaps we should read it? Ianto said it would be _educational_.”

“I dread to image the things that Jeeves might find educational,” Sherlock rose nonetheless and walked nonchalantly over the coffee table, snatching the folder from John’s hand. “Still, additional data is always useful.”

He opened the folder and leafed through the documents within. “Grimesby Roylott, born in 1954, blah, blah, schooled in blah, blah, doctor of medicine, not surprising, lived in Kerala until twelve years ago, boring, married Mrs Morstan, yes, we know that, widowed…”

“ _What_?” John interrupted. “Mary’s mother is dead?”

“Mhm,” Sherlock replied absently. “Car accident six years ago, nothing suspicious according to the police, but we both know that they’re idiots.”

John didn’t listen to his ramblings. “Six years ago,” he murmured. “Less than a year before Mary would ask for a divorce.”

“Hardly a coincidence,” Sherlock commented. “As soon as Mary had no-one to back her decisions, Roylott most likely applied more and more pressure, until she broke and gave in. Still, a fanatical interest in Hinduism and Indian culture is too weak a motivation for all this. There’s something that we’re overlooking.”

“He was always secretive and full of mistrust,” John sighed. “What else did Mycroft find out about him?”

“Not much,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. “His minions are losing their touch, it seems. Anyway, Dr Roylott apparently bought the entire block where the _Spice Bazaar_ is situated. He’s got a practice there, right behind the shop.”

“What kind of practice?” John asked in suspicion. “He may have a degree but he never actually used it to my knowledge.”

“Alternate medicine,” Sherlock studied the documents some more. “He appears to have the licence to practice the art of ayurvedic healing, which he’s supposed to have received in Calcutta at the same time he finished his medical degree. You didn’t know it?”

“Nah, this is the first time I hear about this. There’s something very fishy about this whole thing Sherlock.”

“Agreed,” the detective tapped his lower lip with the tip of a finger thoughtfully. “Which is why I must be the one to escort Mrs Hudson to the _Spice Bazaar_.”

“Sherlock!”

“Be reasonable, John. Your appearance will raise Dr Roylott’s suspicions at once, and then we’ll learn nothing. Especially as your ex-wife denies to have ever known you.”

Which was very true, of course, so John didn’t have any other choice than to give in.

~TBC~


	5. Caged in Fragrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The lines about spice lore have been borrowed (and partially rewritten) from “The Mistress of Spices”.

**PART 05 – CAGED IN FRAGRANCE**

Ever since the quiet, mild-mannered young Welshman had visited her _Spice Bazaar_ , Mary Morstan needed all her considerable willpower to keep up her usual calm, serene appearance. She could not afford to slip. Her stepfather kept her under constant surveillance, and if she gave any sign that she could still remember John, in fact still missed him, she would vanish from the public eye, too.

She and Haroun, the delivery man of the _Spice Bazaar_ , were the only ones allowed to have any contact with the outside world. They were the only chinks on the Shastri Mohashai’s near-perfect armour; therefore they were being watched, all the time.

She smiled bitterly. _Shastri Mohashai_ – the Great Refuge. That was how Dr Roylott demanded to be addressed by his followers. What a cruel joke!

He never used it publicly, of course. In the public eye he was a serious doctor of alternate medicine; one who’d supposedly learned the method of ayurveda healing in India and was now practicing it in the small circle of the Indian community in East End. His unassuming little practice was behind the _Spice Bazaar_ and could only be accessed through her shop.

Behind the simple, benevolent public face of Dr Grimesby Roylott, however, lurked the guru of an esoteric sect, cobbled together from elements of Hinduism, Buddhism, urban legends and hair-raising superstitions that he had picked up during his travels.

No such sect actually existed in India – or anywhere else, for that matter. It was entirely Dr Roylott’s construction and served one single purpose: to ensure his absolute control over his unfortunate followers.

Said followers were mostly young white people without guidance, without true orientation… and usually well off, which seemed to be an important criterion while selecting neonates. They came to the _Spice Bazaar_ – or to Dr Roylott’s practice – out of genuine interest or because they were hungry for something different, something exotic that could bring a little spice into their dull lives… pun entirely unintended.

When they realised that they had been trapped – _if_ they realised it, given the fact that they were constantly sleep-deprived, half-starved and regularly drugged – it was too late... and impossible to get out. Not without outside help, and contacts to the outside world were very sufficiently prevented.

Mary herself had recognised the trap too late. While their mother had been alive, Dr. Roylott merely pressed the importance of Hindu traditions, and Mother had not been entirely adverse. Neither had Julia, accepting to be called Jemimah within the family (and since when was _that_ an Indian name anyway?) and willing to lead a secluded life. Her training as a book-keeper enabled her to work from home, taking care of the financial side of the family business and seemed content with it.

Mary had rebelled against such a stifling life from the day on which their mother remarried. She had fought – successfully – for the right to study and become an apothecary. Thanks to her studies – through which she’d met John in the first place – she was able to use her spices as alternate medication instead of as some sort of magical stuff her stepfather liked to present them. She genuinely did her best to help her customers – and to keep them away from her stepfather’s practice.

Marrying John had been her one, desperate attempt to escape. Oh, she liked him well enough, despite the age difference and the fact that John was _not_ a wealthy man and thus had to work hard to become a doctor. And she knew that he loved her with all his big, generous heart. They _could_ have made their marriage work, in spite of the nay-sayers from both their families – because Harry Watson had opposed it just as vehemently as her stepfather. She never figured out why.

But then John had enlisted – no doubt, partly driven by the unconscious intent to escape all that domestic nastiness – and without his solid presence Mary just didn’t have the strength to fight the pressure coming from all sides. She _had_ resisted for a while – for years, in fact – but after their mother’s unexpected death she finally gave in and signed the divorce papers, just to have a little peace.

She did not blame John for his choice. She even understood him to a certain extent. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d let her alone, and she needed _someone_ to support her. With him gone, she needed her family.

She only learned afterwards that her stepfather had sold the small house in which she and John used to live behind her back. It had belonged to Mother, and after her death Dr Roylott could do with it as he pleased. He had been eager to get rid of the house, cutting off any attempts of an independent life Mary might have made later.

She was trapped for life now. She had nowhere to go, she had no access to her own bank account; she no longer even had her name. She had become Mira Marsti, a prisoner in her little spice shop, forced to live by the ridiculous rules Dr Roylott had taken from that Divakaruni novel. She was not allowed to leave her shop, she was not allowed to touch the skin of anyone, not even to help them, and she was not allowed to use the spices “to her own advantage”.

That last part was particularly ridiculous. The spices were what they were: helpful sometimes, useful at other times, but they were no magic ingredients. What possible use could she have of them, being a prisoner in the _Spice Bazaar_?

Well, save for protection, of course.

And yet her stepfather insisted on this last rule every time he visited the shop – which happened twice a week but still too often for her comfort – adding barely veiled threats in case she wouldn’t obey.

And the security cameras, hidden among the abundance of spices, of jars and tin boxes and wreaths and garlands, ensured that he would know of any of her trespassings. And then there would be consequences.

She wasn’t afraid for herself. With Julia gone, too, she had nothing left to lose. But she did want to make sure that there would be justice for Julia, for Mother… for all the other poor souls trapped in the nightmare her stepfather had created.

She opened the gilded doors of the little shrine in the back of the shop, lighted the freshly prepared incense stick and closed her eyes as if she’d be praying. Instead, she willed her breath to slow, her conscious mind to fold itself inward. She could feel the heat pulsing in her head, her thoughts whirling like broken glass, and she knew she had been drugged again. Probably something in the water. What little food she was allowed to have she prepared herself, and no-one would dare to tamper with her spices, for she alone knew their powers and purposes.

It didn’t really matter. Her stepfather wasn’t the only one versed in the secrets of ayurveda healing. She had learned those secrets since she was a little girl, and she knew how to counteract the effects of opiates and other natural drugs by focusing her willpower and with the help of selected incense sticks.

She was violating the most important rule of the _Shastri Mohashai_ in plain sight, and the idiot didn’t even realise what she was doing, as his so-called knowledge was nothing but pretence. She, on the other hand, was the mistress of spices, and the spices served her – not the other way around, no matter what Bollywood films might suggest.

The incense stick burning before the shrine right now was made of dried chilli, among other things; the spice of red Thursday – the day of reckoning.

The day that invited one to pick up the sack of their existence and shake it inside out.

The day of suicide.

The day of murder.

Each day had a unique colour and a smell, and she knew that today, on this particular red Thursday, when the smell of burning chilli was strong enough to make her sweat and to make her eyes tear, the reckoning would come one step closer.

She welcomed it with a coldly vengeful heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The door-chime announced the arrival of the first customer of the day. She who was once Mary Morstan closed the shrine, left the incense stick to burn all the way through during the next hour or so, and hurried forward to greet them.

Her customers had always been and will always be her first concern.

She had expected old Mr Kher. He always came in first on Thursdays, complaining about his granddaughter Geeta violating sacred Hindu traditions, asking for advice and for ‘the right spices to change her mind’. She always gave him something else; something that would strengthen the girl’s will and self-confidence. She would never help to trap another woman the way she was trapped, between tradition and tyranny.

At least Mr Kher did what he did out of genuine, albeit mislead, concern for a beloved grandchild.

This time, however, it wasn’t Mr Kher entering the shop first. It was a tall, pale, curly-haired man in his mid-thirties, with the most incredible eyes she’d ever seen.

Eyes like rock crystal.

The eyes of a snake.

He was leading a little old lady on his arm; a fragile elderly woman who seemed to have difficulties keeping up with his long strides. Could she be his mother or grandmother? No, Mary could not feel the usual exchange of energies that always went back and forth between blood relatives. And yet he seemed genuinely fond of her, and the feeling was clearly mutual.

“Namaste,” Mary folded her hands in the traditional Hindu greeting. “I am Mira, owner of this shop. Can I be of assistance?”

The strange-looking man gave him a tight smile.

“That remains to be seen,” he replied. “You see, my landlady has been suffering from arthritic pains for some time by now. Can you give her anything that would ease her suffering?”

~TBC~


	6. Hope, Faith & Trick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The chapter title is borrowed from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” - with one small change.

**PART 06 – HOPE, FAITH & TRICK**

Sherlock watched the mistress of spices with great interest while she was asking Mrs Hudson questions and rummaged amongst her multitude of spices to find the right one that would ease the older woman’s pain.

So, this was John’s ex-wife. Interesting. She looked younger than he’d expected, even though he knew about the age difference between her and John. And she was incredibly beautiful – another thing he hadn’t expected. The photos in Mycroft’s folder certainly didn’t give her justice.

As a rule, Sherlock wasn’t interested in the opposite gender – or in his own, for that matter. But Mary Morstan, or Mira Marsti as she called herself in these days, appealed to his sense of aesthetics on a purely platonic level. No aesthete could see this level of perfection and remain untouched by it.

Unfortunately, though, the pupils of those striking blue eyes were dilated. Not very much; not enough for even an inexperienced doctor or police officer to take notice. But somebody with Sherlock’s observation skills – somebody who used to be a drug addict himself – couldn’t overlook it.

No more than he could overlook the cleverly hidden surveillance devices all over the shop. Who would need so many security cameras to watch one drugged shop girl anyway? John had been right. Something was very fishy here.

Of course, the security cameras offered possibilities. Mycroft’s minions would doubtlessly be able to hack into Dr Roylott’s security system, and then they would know more. Hopefully.

The manner in which she treated her customers was interesting, too. Sherlock had seen enough medical professionals in his life – mostly due to his enforced drug therapies, courtesy of Mycroft – to recognize faked interest when he saw it. He could see nothing like that in Mary’s demeanour. She was genuinely interested in her customers; honestly wanted to help them.

As she was patiently listening to Mrs Hudson describing her problems, what kind of herbal soothers she used and for how long, asking a few short, practical questions from time to time, it reminded Sherlock of John.

John at the clinic, dealing with a never-ending line of patients…

John, talking to a gunshot victim while trying to keep him alive until the ambulance would finally arrive…

John at his bedside when he’d taken a bad fall during one of their mad chases…

John, talking to Mrs Hudson about her arthritis…

Yes, Sherlock could understand now the unlikely choice that had led to marriage between those two. Despite the age difference, despite their vastly different backgrounds, in the thing that counted most John and Mary were very alike. Patients came first for both of them; and both were determined to do their best to help.

Yes, it explained what otherwise would have been a little surprising: Than such a stunning beauty would choose plain and simple John, with his jumpers and endless mugs of tea. John, who was a good, honest, resourceful man but considerably older and not exactly the type young girls would fawn over. Clearly, Mary had seen beyond the plain surface and found what she’d looked for.

They had the same helper syndrome, going out of their way for people who might need them.

Sherlock watched with interest as Mary mixed her spices for Mrs Hudson’s use, choosing them without hesitation from large glass jars and tin boxes, all of which looked the same, none of which had any labels. She clearly knew her way around this show with its thousands of ingredients.

“Ms Morstan,” he said, deliberately calling Mary by her old name, which in theory, he wasn’t supposed to know. “If these spices prove to be helpful for Mrs Hudson, would it be possible to send us regular doses of it, so that she won’t have to travel through the whole city every time?”

Mary pretended not having heard him call her by old name, but there was a glimmer of understanding in her beautiful eyes. She had obviously connected the dots and made the connection between the recent visit of Jeeves, to whom she’d denied to have ever known John in the first place, and now Sherlock’s knowledge of her true identity.

“Naturally, we can arrange that,” she answered in her soft voice. “We’ve got a delivery man. The spices must be freshly mixed each time, but if you give me name and address, Haroun will deliver the mixture three times a week. He’s very reliable.”

Mrs Hudson seemed in equal measure surprised and suspicious, but Sherlock hurriedly answered for her.

“That would be very kind of you, Ms Morstan – wouldn’t it, Mrs Hudson?” he added with slight emphasis, which Mrs Hudson, shrewd old lady that she was, caught at once and nodded in agreement. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B, Baker Street. I’d come up for the additional expenses, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Mary answered gently. “Delivering the spices is part of our service. And you must be mistaken, sir; my name isn’t Morstan. It’s Mira Marsti.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock said smoothly. “I must have misunderstood. In any case, we’re grateful for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” she gave hem a serene smile. “It’s my duty and my privilege as the mistress of spices to help.”

“And you’re doing it with amendable devotion,” Sherlock replied, using the fake charm he often showed during a case. “Well, we must be off, Mrs Hudson. John will be home, soon, and I still have to replace the milk I used to grow bacteria before he notices that it’s gone, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“He’s right, you know, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said with a hint of disapproval. “The things you use the fridge and the foodstuffs for are _not_ hygienic. No wonder John’s bothered by them, the poor dear, seeing that he’s a doctor and all.”

She turned to Mary. “Thank you, dear. You’ve been very kind and helpful. I hope we’ll see you again.”

“I’ll be here, whenever you choose to come,” the young woman replied, with the same inscrutable smile that covered a great deal of well-hidden pain.

So well-hidden indeed that one had to possess the observation skills of Sherlock Holmes to see it. But it was there. Just as she would be there, trapped in her fragrant cage; forever, unless she got help from the outside.

Sherlock considered it a challenge to help her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Unbeknownst by him, Mycroft was already a step ahead of him, having Mummy hack into the surveillance system of Dr Roylott.

The results were _not_ very useful so far.

“All cameras seem to be focused on Mary and the inside of the _Spice Bazaar_ ,” Ianto reported. “Apparently, Dr Roylott wants to watch every single step of his stepdaughter, while he has other, non-electronic means to control those living inside the actual house behind the shop.”

“He hasn’t done a very good job with the surveillance, though,” Anthea commented. “There’s a corner, behind _this_ shelf full of dried mushrooms, that doesn’t show up on any of the cameras.”

She made a circle around the area in question on the screen with the tip of a well-manicured finger and the two men leaned closer curiously.

“Interesting,” Ianto said. “Could it be mere oversight by an incompetent technician or has perhaps Mary managed to change the position of the cameras slightly without being caught?”

“Either… or both,” Anthea shrugged. “In any case, there’s definitely an angle where she can do whatever she wants without her stepfather’s knowledge.”

“She plays a dangerous game,” Ianto said. “If there’s anything wrong with Dr Roylott’s practice, some foul play with his patients, she’s the only one in the know. Which means that she’s in danger. Sooner or later, she’ll become a risk that outweighs her usefulness for him – whatever it might be. And _then_ I wouldn’t give a false penny for her life.”

“That, of course, would solve our dilemma whether we ought to allow Doctor Watson to be reunited with his ex-wife,” Mycroft commented coldly.

“True,” Ianto allowed, his voice every bit as cold. “But what, do you think, Doctor Watson will do if he learns that you could have saved his ex-wife and instead simply allowed her to be killed?”

“Doctor Watson isn’t a friend of _mine_ ,” Mycroft shrugged indifferently. “I won’t expect any great changes in our relationship.”

Ianto shook his head in exasperation. “You Time Lords and your insufferable arrogance! After decades in a human body you still don’t have a clue what makes us tick, do you? John Watson _loved_ his wife; in a way he still does. He might be a friend of Sherlock’s, but Mary has the older claim. Doctor Watson wouldn’t stay friends with the man whose brother looked the other way while his ex got murdered. And should _that_ happen, Doctor Watson _will_ learn the truth.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr Jones?” Mycroft asked silkily. “Aren’t you a bit over-confident about your newly gained immortality? It might _not_ last, after all.”

Ianto shrugged. “I’m a dead man walking, sir; do you believe that I’m really afraid of dying, even if it should be permanent at the third time? And yes, I _would_ tell Doctor Watson the truth. I’d even open the fob watch and release the Doctor if I had to. Cos I know what it means to love somebody more than life itself. I nearly let loose the Cybermen on Earth again, in my efforts to save Lisa, and I’d do it in a heartbeat again, would there be the faintest chance to succeed. That’s something _you’d_ never understand.”

“Perhaps,” Anthea intervened smoothly before things could have become _really_ ugly between the two men, “perhaps talking to Ms Morstan in a safe environment and learning what’s really going on with Dr Roylott would be helpful.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” Ianto asked doubtfully. “We can’t sit down with her in that one small corner of her shop for God knows how long.”

“Actually,” the android said, “I was thinking of a perception filter. Well; two perception filters, in fact.”

~TBC~


	7. Threats & Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the original ACD story “The Speckled Band”. Dr Roylott is “played” by Anthony Stewart Head.
> 
> Beta read by my good friend Jenn Calaelen, thanks! All remaining mistakes are mine.

**PART 07 – THREATS & PROMISES**

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson managed to get back to Baker Street before John, who’d been asked to pull a double shift at the surgery (flu season was coming up, and the first victims were already filling the waiting room). They’d even remembered to buy milk and, after some consideration, Sherlock decided to get rid of the feet that had been sitting in the fridge, next to John’s cans of beer, for at least a week.

The experiment he’d got them for was no longer of importance, and perhaps John would appreciate the gesture.

Then he pulled out the file of Dr Roylott, sent to him by Mycroft via Jeeves, and submerged himself into the sea of data, trying to separate the significant ones from mere trivia. Somewhere in all that knowledge _had_ to be a clue that would tell him something about Roylott’s hidden motivation.

It took him an hour of meticulous research to finally reach the one document of true importance: the will of the man’s deceased wife, Mary’s mother. The contents of the will were… interesting, to say the least. Highly informative, too.

At the time of her death, Mrs Morstan had disposed over a considerable amount of money, which she’d inherited from her first husband (Mary’s late father), and which she’d left in equal parts to her second husband and her two daughters.

However, the phrasing of the will was such that Mary and Julia – or Jemimah, as she had apparently been called lately, for whatever reason – could only have control over their share of the money after they’d got married. Should their marriage fail for any reason – either by divorce or by permanent separation or, and that was the strangest part, by getting widowed – the money would go back to the family and be handled by their stepfather… until and unless they'd remarry.

Mrs Morstan had clearly had a very conservative view about what her daughters could – and should – be allowed in terms of personal freedom. Financial independence was not among those things. Her thought processes must have been stuck somewhere back in the nineteenth century, Sherlock decided.

It wasn’t surprising at all that Mary wanted out, at all costs. What was surprising, however, was the fact that she’d go back to her family voluntarily, as soon as John had left for Afghanistan.

Perhaps she’d been forced in some way; if not physically, then by threats or emotional blackmail. Many people reacted very predictably to that sort of thing. For not the first time in his life, Sherlock was grateful that sentiment had never played a role in the Holmes clan. It was messy and useless and left one vulnerable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
His concentration was rudely broken by a rather vocal argument from downstairs. Obviously, Mrs Hudson was trying to keep someone from coming up – and losing the argument. Sherlock hurriedly swept the documents together, stuffed them back into the folder and kicked the folder under the sofa, just in case.

In the next moment, the living room door was suddenly dashed open, and the door-frame was all but filled by the oddest man that had crossed the threshold of 221B for a long time. And that, considering the clientele Sherlock usually had, was saying a lot.

The newcomer was just a few inches taller than average but managed to appear much larger than that, due to his powerful build. Although clearly an Englishman, he was wearing a long-sleeved black _achkan_ – the traditional, knee-length Hindu jacket, similar to a _sherwani_ – that had the standing-up Nehru collar, as it was still custom in North India, with the matching tight-fitting trousers known as the _churidars_ and a white Gandhi cap.

His broad face was deeply tanned, like that of those who had spent most of their lives in tropical or subtropical areas, although it had begun to fade for some years. His small, pale, almost colourless eyes were deep-set, and together with the shadows beneath them and the long, old scar across his right temple, gave him a vaguely sinister look. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, if his thin, greying hair was any indication.

He marched in, not waiting for an invitation, his tight, economic movements revealing a deep, controlled rage beneath the serene surface.

“Are you Holmes?” he demanded without preamble.

Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’ve guessed my name. Congratulations. Are you going to tell me yours or must we play twenty questions first?”

His visitor scowled at first but then forced himself to an answer.

“I’m Dr Grimesby Roylott,” he announced disdainfully.

“My pleasure, doctor,” Sherlock rose from the sofa, undisturbed by the fact that, once again, he was clad in a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms only. “Do have a seat. Tea? The kettle has just boiled.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” the older man replied with another scowl. “What I want to know is: what were you and that old hag of yours doing in the spice shop of my stepdaughter?”

“Careful, Dr Roylott,” Sherlock warned him coldly. “I don’t care what you think of me, but you’ll control yourself when it comes to Mrs Hudson. She is a perfectly respectable old lady, and the likes of you would do well to treat her like one. Whatever your problem is with me, she has no part in it. She merely wanted something for her arthritic pain and I was accompanying her. That’s all.”

Dr Roylott gave him a humourless grin. “And you just happened to came across the _Spice Bazaar_ by accident, I suppose?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied with a hideously false smile. “A friend of mine has recommended it to me. But I think you already know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I know well enough who you are,” the visitor said darkly. “I’ve heard of you before. Holmes, the meddler. Holmes, the busybody. Holmes, the Scotland Yard’s Jack-in-office.”

Sherlock smiled at him in the same unpleasant way as before.

“Your conversation is most entertaining,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have no longer the time to continue with it. Please don’t let the door hit your back when you leave.”

“I’ll go when I’ve said what I have to say,” Dr Roylott replied. “Don’t you _dare_ to meddle with my affairs! I know who your flatmate is. I know you’re doing this for Mira’s ex-husband; but I warn you: I’m a dangerous man to fall foul of.”

“So am I,” Sherlock returned, grinning like a shark.

Dr Roylott shook his head. “Oh, no. You have no idea whom you’re dealing with. I’ve dealt with arrogant young fools like you many times. _I am_ still here; but who could tell where _they_ have gone?”

“Well, I agree that the police are shamefully incompetent, most of the time,” Sherlock said languidly. “But even they will find the corpses eventually.”

“What corpses?” Dr Roylott asked in cold amusement. “You don’t think I’d do anything so mundane as killing them – _or_ you, for that matter.”

“You wouldn’t?” Sherlock asked back, decidedly unimpressed. “How elitist of you.”

“There are other methods; subtler and more permanent ones,” Dr Roylott said. “I’ve checked out your website, Mr Holmes. _The Science of Deduction_ – sounds impressive. You seem to be unduly proud of that brain of yours. Arrogant even.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Never said I wasn’t. But I earned my arrogance, I think.”

“Perhaps so,” Dr Roylott agreed softly. “The more a wicked shame it would be if your brain would turn into vegetable, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t do drugs,” Sherlock replied with another shrug. “Not any more.”

“Not that you know of, no,” Dr Roylott allowed. “But do you really think you could control whether something is slipped into your food or not? Even with equipment like yours,” with that, he waved in the direction of Sherlock’s makeshift lab, clearly visible through the open kitchen door, “there’d be no way to control _everything_.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock drawled. “It’s a good thing, then, that I rarely eat, isn’t it?”

Dr Roylott shook his head with an expression that could almost be described as pity. _Almost_.

“Even if you starved yourself to death, you’d only prolong the inevitable,” he said. “There are substances so rare and so old that they wouldn’t show up in any analysis, simply because they are unknown to modern silence. They could be in your water, or dispersed in the air of your bedroom, or all over those expensive suits of yours by the dry cleaner’s. The result would be the same, in any case.”

“Are you threatening me, doctor?” Sherlock asked quietly, with a faint edge of steel in his deep voice.

“Oh, no,” his visitor replied in the same tone. “I’m just explaining you what’s likely to happen if you don’t keep yourself out of my grip. Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll find you. And even if some unknown substance did show up in your blood test, with your past as an addict, who would dig any deeper? Once an addict always an addict, isn’t that what they say?”

“That,” said Sherlock dryly, “wouldn’t stop my brother finding out the truth. And he’s a lot less amiable towards people who try to harm our family than I am.”

“Who said anything about _trying_?” Dr Roylott smiled coldly. “I’m long beyond the experimental phase. But let’s say your brother does find out the truth. In what way would that help _you_ , once you’ve become a bumbling idiot in a padded room, with the mental state of a two-year-old who's still wetting his bed? Some of the old poisons have a permanent effect, you see. If I were you, I’d seriously consider if the risk is worth taking. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

He turned around to leave, but stopped again for a moment on the threshold, firing off his last warning.

“You can tell John Watson to back off, too. I know he’s too much of a stubborn idiot to think of his own safety; but if he wants to keep Mira alive, he’ll stay the hell away from her. She’s useful for me, but not indispensable.”

And with that final salvo he left indeed, leaving a very thoughtful Sherlock behind.

When John came home two hours later he found the feet gone, two cartons of milk in the fridge, and Sherlock lying on the sofa, dead to the world, obviously lost in his Mind Palace.

“Right,” he muttered, switching on the kettle. “This is gonna be a fun evening.”

~TBC~


	8. Contingency Plans

**PART 08 – CONTINGENCY PLANS**

“He did _what_?” Mycroft Holmes, retired Time Lord by trade, glared at his PA/ninja butler in a cold fury that would have made hardened government assassins quake in their boots. “That miserable excuse of a human being _dared_ to threaten to destroy the mind of _my_ brother?”

Ianto Jones wasn’t particularly impressed by the display of pure Gallifreyan rage. But again, he’d faced Daleks, Cybermen, in-bred cannibals, the 456 _and_ rouge Time Agent John Hart in his time, so he wasn’t easily intimidated anymore.

“Aren’t you overdoing the big brother part a bit, sir?” he asked dryly. “It may not be a common knowledge, but _we_ both know that the Doctor isn’t really your brother. Even if he’s annoying enough to play the part convincingly.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, just a little. Ianto’s unique view of things always helped him to regain his control, which he rarely lost to begin with. It was one of the reasons why he kept the young man around.

Aside from the fact that letting a dead man walk around on his own would have been a serious threat for the timeline, of course.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he said. “Sherlock and I may not be related by blood, but the _Doctor_ and I are the last of our kind. In all that matters, he _is_ my brother; and he’s absolutely brilliant, even for one of us. I won’t let that… _person_ endanger his brilliance.”

“So, what are you going to do, sir?” Ianto asked politely.

“I’m going to take the organization of Dr Roylott apart, piece by piece,” Mycroft replied, his eyes cold like ice. “And when I’m done with his little sect, I’ll take _him_ apart, piece by piece, so that he won’t be able to endanger _anyone_ again.”

Ianto refrained from asking just how _that_ would be any different from _him_ investigating the ill-remembered Mr Dekker with the help of the alien mind probe. Time Lords didn’t react well if accused of hypocrisy – perhaps because they had a tendency to it.

“Aren’t you forgetting something again?” he asked instead.

Mycroft frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mary Morstan,” Ianto reminded him. “Before you make your move, should we not get her out of there? Or are you writing her off as collateral damage?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t agree with such a solution, would you?” Mycroft said coldly.

“It doesn’t matter if _I agree_ or not, sir,” Ianto replied. “Dr Watson would never forgive you, should Mary come to any harm; and currently he’s the only person who can make your _brother_ talk to you… occasionally.”

Mycroft – the Watcher – bit his lower lip. As much as he hated to admit, Ianto was right. He could not afford to lose John Watson’s goodwill if he wanted to keep at least partial control over Sherlock’s life.

“Any suggestions?” he asked reluctantly. Ianto shook his head.

“Afraid not, sir. I made the mistake of mentioning Dr Watson’s name when I visited the _Spice Bazaar_ , so I’m most likely suspect in Dr Roylott’s eyes. Otherwise I could have let myself be recruited by the sect. I’ve got a high tolerance against drugs.”

“Not as high as I have,” Anthea said, walking into the room. “Plus, I’ll be able to analyze whatever drug Roylott feeds me as soon as I’ve consumed it.”

“That would give us a clue what to look for,” Ianto agreed. “But how are you planning to infiltrate the sect?”

“By switching places with Mary,” Anthea suggested. “We can let Mummy find an acquaintance of Dr Roylott’s who’s safely out of reach at the moment. I’ll go to the shop, asking for the same stuff they usually get, change clothes with Mary, slap a perception filter on her and push her out of the door. Somebody ought to pick her up with a car, though, lest she loses her nerves and runs back again.”

“That has to be Mickey, then,” Ianto said. “I can’t show my face there again.”

“That could work,” Mycroft allowed. “We must hurry up, though. We can’t know how soon Dr Roylott is planning to make his move; we need to be one step ahead of him.”

“I’ll be ready tomorrow by the time the shop opens,” Anthea promised. “But sir, perhaps it would be prudent to have Sherlock and Dr Watson brought to the estate during the night. There we can grant their safety. At Baker Street we cannot. Not without taking extreme measures which, again, would draw way too much unwanted attention.”

Mycroft nodded. “Since Mr Jones here has proved very good at kidnapping people, I’ll leave it in his capable hands.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Ianto said with a bland smile.

“Good,” Mycroft replied. “See to it at once. I’ll ask Martha to go to the estate and prepare some rooms for Mary. I think it will be the best if we had everyone tucked safely away until we can make our move against Dr Roylott.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It was late when John finished at the surgery. Some virus was making its rounds in London; the waiting room had resembled a refugee camp all day – and, unlike the other doctors, he _did_ know what a refugee camp looked like from first-hand experience, thank you very much.

To make things even worse, some of the doctors had gone down with the virus, too; caught it from their patients, most likely. So the others hade to take over her workload as well. It definitely wasn’t John’s idea of fun.

When the last patient finally left, he was seriously tempted to stretch out on the examination table and sleep right there. Preferably for the whole next week. Only the knowledge that Sherlock would burst in with some new case even here made him reconsider. If he wasn’t getting enough sleep anyway, at least he could get what little Sherlock would let him have in his own bed.

Even if the distance to Baker Street seemed insurmountable at the moment.

Perhaps he’d be lucky enough to catch a cab for a change, and money be damned. The thought alone was comforting, and he began to believe that he might reach his bed before the next millennium, actually.

When the familiar, sleek black Jaguar pulled up next to him, however, he groaned inwardly. Mycroft was the last person he wanted to see right now. In fact, he didn’t want to see anyone – or anything, save his bed – at all. Period.

“Not now, Mycroft,” he mumbled without looking when he heard the car door open. “I’m _tired_!”

“Then I suggest you get in the car, Dr Watson,” the lilting voice of Mycroft’s ninja butler replied. “It’s an hour’s drive to the Holmes estate, but you can sleep on the back seat. I took the liberty to lay out some pillows and blankets for you.”

That casually dropped piece of information did wake up John just a little, and he looked at young Mr Jones bleary-eyed.

“What do you mean with that,” he demanded. “I’m _not_ going to the Holmes estate, and that’s a fact.”

“I’m sorry, Dr Watson, but you _must_ ,” Ianto replied apologetically. “Sherlock’s already there. Mr Holmes is quite certain that you’re both in grave danger, and the estate is the safest place for you to be.”

“Danger?” John frowned. “What kind of danger?”

_This time_ , the unspoken addition flowed in the air between them.

“Dr Grimesby Roylott paid Baker Street a visit while you were working,” Ianto explained while steering him to the back seat with more strength one would have expected. “Threats were made, I’m told; serious enough threats for Mr Holmes to order your protective custody – and Sherlock’s of course.”

“Nonsense,” John yawned. “Sherlock gets death threats every other day. No need for Mycroft to get his expensive knickers in a knot.”

“This was a different kind of threat,” Ianto said. “You’ll be shown the CCTV footage as soon as we reach the estate. You’ll understand.”

By now John had known the young Welshman well enough to know that nothing short a particularly brutal force of nature could deter Ianto Jones from his chosen path. He _could_ have tried to get away – he was a soldier, after all, used to improvise _and_ to use force if necessary – but the outcome would have been brutal. It was easier to give in and decide on the necessary action later, when a better opportunity might offer itself.

Besides, the back seat of Mycroft’s car – of _all_ his cars – was very comfortable. John chose to make the best of the situation; he lay down on the makeshift bed Ianto had arranged for him and promptly fell asleep.

Having expected this from the very moment he got the doctor in the car, Ianto activated his comm link – a Torchwood-issue one, salvaged from the ruins of the Hub by Mycroft’s minions.

“I’ve got Dr Watson,” he said. “What about Sherlock? I promised he’d be there when we arrive.”

“I’ve collected him an hour ago,” the voice of Anthea answered. “Unfortunately, I had to shot him with a narcotic to get him under control; he’s always so unreasonable. In any case, he’s sleeping off the effect now.”

“A narcotic?” Ianto frowned. “Was that not a risky move, him being who and what he is?”

“It’s a sedative specifically designed for Gallifreyan physiology,” Anthea replied.

“Yeah, but he’s a human now,” Ianto pointed out.

“ _Mostly_ a human,” Anthea corrected. “It will not harm him. It’s been tested.”

“Tested on whom?” Ianto was still not liking it. He might not be a fan of the Doctor – and boy was _that_ an understatement! – but he didn’t want to harm him.

“On Mr Holmes, of course,” the android said. “I have to take drastic measures to force him to rest sometimes. It’s for his own good, you see. Now, see that you get here with _your_ charge as soon as possible. We’ll need him to placate Sherlock once he wakes up.”

She broke the connection and Ianto shook his head in tolerant amusement.

“And they call _me_ ruthless,” he muttered, before speeding up the car considerably, though still within the allowed limits.

There was no need to cause an accident – or to piss off the police – after all.

~TBC~


	9. Mary & Mary

**PART 09 – MARY & MARY**

On the day after the visit of the enigmatic man with the arthritic old lady, Mary was surprised to see a black car with tinted glasses pull up in front of the _Spice Bazaar_. A young black man in a chauffeur’s uniform opened the door to the back seat and out got an attractive young woman of about thirty, wearing a tailored skirt suit in a decent eggshell colour and moderately high heels. Her dark, glossy hair was a bit below shoulder-length and fell in loose waves around her face.

She headed straight to the _Spice Bazaar_ and entered without hesitation although, to Mary’s knowledge, she’d never been there before. That was decidedly odd. Most new customers lingered in front of the shop window for a while before entering.

“Good morning,” she said in a clear, confident voice that made Mary almost hurt with envy. What wouldn’t she give for half that self-confidence! “I’m looking for Mira Marsti.”

Mary came forth from between the tall shelves and bowed, folding her hands in the traditional Hindu greeting.

“You found her. How can I help you?” she asked in mild suspicion, because it wasn’t often that someone would ask for her by name and she definitely had _not_ met the customer before.

“My name is Alison McAllister,” the woman introduced herself. “I have a… let’s say a passing acquaintance to a certain Mr Ronald Adair. I understand that he’s a regular customer of yours?”

“Indeed, he is,” Mary replied warily.

Mr Adair was one of her stepfather’s acquaintances. The two had some shady business together; a fact that did not exactly increase her trust in the new customer. If this woman worked with Adair…

“He mentioned to me that you can prepare a mix of spices that helps him focus on his work without the aid of any medical stimulants,” Ms McAllister continued. “I was wondering if you could mix the same stuff for me? I’m in a great deal of work-related stress right now, you see, and need all my wits around me.”

Mary shook her head apologetically. Mr Adair got his fix from her stepfather – she suspected drugs, some sort of opium derivate – to which she had no access. Not that she would hand out mind-altering drugs to a customer anyway. She was a healer, not a dealer.

“I am truly sorry,” she said, “but Mr Adair’s medicine is prescribed by my stepfather, Dr Grimesby Roylott, and the ingredients of it are carefully selected and measured to match his personal needs. You can make an appointment at the clinic, however, if you want – it’s right behind the shop – and he would decide on a personal mixture for you. Alternate medicine needs delicate balance, you see. Age, gender, weight … even eating habits play an important role. You need to consult him first.”

The other woman shrugged. “Nah; too much bother. I’ve got an aversion to doctors anyway. Can you give me some good spices for the digestion then? I’m afraid I don’t lead a very healthy life. What are those things here?”

She walked into the back of the spice shop and Mary followed her in agitation. Her other customers were never so bold – or so tactless – to wander around in her realm uninvited. This woman made her nervous. Very nervous.

Ms McAlister, if that was truly her name, stopped in the dead winkle of the shop where, Mary knew, the cameras could not see her – and how could she possibly know _that_? – and did something with her phone. In the next moment her expression changed from haughty and airy to serious and business-like.

“Listen carefully, because we don’ have much time,” she said. “This device can scramble and rearrange our words for about ten minutes, but if we hide here too long, your stepfather will become suspicious and come to check on you, so we must act at once. Take off your clothes!”

“I beg your pardon?” Mary couldn’t quite believe her ears.

“Take off your clothes and put on mine,” Ms McAlister was already stripping with calm, purposeful moves. “Then walk out of the shop and get into the black car waiting in front of the door. Smith will take you to my boss where you’ll be safe until we deal with your stepfather.”

“This is madness!” Mary protested, but she didn’t resist when the other woman quickly divested her from her clothes and helped her into the sinfully expensive skirt suit which, surprisingly enough, was a perfect fit. “We don’t even look alike! He’ll know I’ve bolted the moment I set foot outside the shop!”

“No, he won’t,” Ms McAllister fixed a silver filigree broche on the lapel of her jacket. “This is a piece of equipment that officially doesn’t even exist, so you’d do best to forget about it as soon as you’ve handed it back. For the purpose of your escape, however, it will create a fake holographic image of you that will fool everyone, unless they take a close look at you. Essentially, it will make you look like me; and the one I’ll be wearing will make me look like you.”

“But even if I manage to reach the car, my stepfather will notice the change, soon,” Mary protested. And then you’ll be in very great danger.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ms McAllister grinned wolfishly. “I _thrive_ on danger. Besides, once you’re in safety, the gorillas of my boss can barrel in and save me if necessary.”

“Who is your boss?” Mary asked. “Who are _you_ , for that matter? Why are you doing this?”

“The man with the curly hair who was here yesterday with the old lady, remember him?”

Mary nodded. The woman smiled thinly. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

“My boss is his older brother. Your stepfather made the mistake to visit Sherlock yesterday and make some threats. _Nobody_ threats Sherlock and gets away to make those threats true. My boss takes such things very personally; and I am one of his means to remove any threats against his brother. Permanently.”

Her voice was so cold that Mary couldn’t suppress a shiver. In the meantime she had put on Mary’s traditional Indian clothes with such practiced ease as if she had worn them all her life. Then she checked her phone again.

“The scrambler will work for another two minutes. We better go back into sight. Grab some spices as if I had brought them from you and head directly to the door. Don’t hesitate and don’t look back; they could still stop you until you’ve got into the car, so try to look confident. The next few minutes are crucial.”

Mary obeyed as if in a trance. The drugs her stepfather had been feeding her for years _had_ weakened her resistance against clear, direct orders, and so she went through the moves of seemingly purchasing the spices that were her own from a woman that she’d never seen before – and that looked and _sounded_ exactly like her – as if she were sleepwalking.

When she reached the door, though, she needed all her remaining willpower _not_ to back off. She hadn’t left the shop for almost two years, and even though she knew she’d been imprisoned and manipulated by her stepfather all the time, conditioning was a hard thing to overcome.

Still, she managed to get through the door without stumbling in the long-unused heels. The car had pulled up right in front of the entrance in the meantime, and the young black chauffeur opened the door to the back seat with a polite bow.

“Back to the office, Ms McAllister?” he asked. A faded street accent could be heard in his voice, but he camouflaged it well enough.

“Yes, Smith, thank you,” she replied in what she hoped was a confident manner, glad that she could remember his name – if it was his name at all – and tried to climb into the car with so much grace as she could master.

The inside of the car was exquisite: black leather upholstery, high-polished chrome everywhere, and the dashboard looked like the pilot console of the Starship _Enterprise_ – the new one, with Patrick Stewart as its captain. She barely dared to touch anything.

The uniformed chauffeur slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine, leaving her life as she had known for the recent years behind. She didn’t know whether she should be glad or frightened to death by the perspective.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. Not that it truly mattered, as long as she was getting away from her fragrant cage.

The young man smiled into the mirror.

“To someone who’s missed you very much,” he replied, somewhat cryptically, but she understood the meaning of it nonetheless.

JOHN! He was taking her to John! All the strange events lately led to this single possible solution. First the young man in that expressive suit, then the strange one with the arthritic old lady, and now the attractive female agent… assassin… whatever. Straight out of one of those James Bond films John used to like so much.

But since when had John known such powerful people? His family had never been rich or influential, and they were all dead anyway, with the exception of Harry, who was not much of a help. During their marriage, they had to struggle to make ends meet… which had been the main reason why John had joined the Army in the first place…

Her thoughts slowly trailed off. The drugs and all the excitement of the recent days had taken their toll on her, and her mind simply shut down, making her drop off in a deep, exhausted sleep.

Mickey Smith, who’d been watching her on the small surveillance screen set in the dashboard the whole time, smiled and activated his comm link… the same issue as Ianto’s, coming from the same source. They’d both been Torchwood once, after all.

“Sir? I’ve got her. Yes, the perception filter worked like a charm. No, she’s sleeping; too much excitement, I guess. Yes, sir, we’ll be at the estate in about an hour or so. Depending on the traffic.”

In his office in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair with a thin, satisfied smile. The pawns were all set, the stratagem fully formed. The game could begin.

~TBC~


	10. Reunion

**PART 10 – REUNION**

Mary didn’t know how long she’d slept; or how far away she’d been transported in her sleep by that sleek black car. When she woke up in the back seat, it still seemed to be late morning outside, and the car was approaching a grand late medieval – presumably Tudor, if her memories of school time could still be trusted – building standing in some distance.

Actually, the structure ahead of them, tall and imposing and rising up like an impenetrable wall of grey stone, was a lot more than just a _building_. It was a veritable _mansion_ , surrounded by extensive, well tended-to gardens. Even the gravelled drive leading up to the front gate was lined with precisely clipped trees and shrubs.

_Manicured_ would have been the better word for it. They all had a perfect geometric shape that nature hadn’t foreseen for any living plant; but she had to admit that they were a pleasant sight. Clean, perfectly ordered forms – relaxing for the eye and helping to focus the mind. After the amorphous chaos that had been her life in the last two years, it was positively refreshing.

The wrought iron wings of the front gate swung open on their own – Mary noticed the surveillance cameras on the massive stone doorposts; apparently, the entrance was watched all the time – and the car pulled up to the ornate front door of the house itself. The young chauffeur hurried to help her out of the back seat. She accepted the help gratefully; walking on heels again, after years out of practice, was a perilous affair, and as her morning dosis of drugs – _and_ antidotes – was slowly wearing off, she felt more than just a little dizzy.

The front door opened soundlessly and out stepped a friendly young man in a sharp suit. The same one who’d visited her shop a few days ago, asking for something against migraines.

“Welcome to the Holmes estate, Ms Morstan,” he said kindly. “It’s so good to see you again; do you remember me?”

Mary nodded. “You… you were in my shop, asked for medicine. How are your headaches?”

“Slightly more tolerable, thank you,” the young man stepped to the side to allow her into the house. “Please, come in. They’re waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Mary, who’d thought that drawing rooms only existed in the Victorian novels her mother liked to read to her and Julia when they were children, was a bit taken aback by that statement.

“ _Who_ is waiting for me?” she asked warily.

“Technically, I’m to take you to Mr Holmes – the master of the house,” the young man explained. “All the same, you’ll be seeing Dr Watson, too.”

“ _JOHN_!” Mary breathed, almost inaudibly. She hadn’t seen him for years. They _had_ met a few times, secretly, when he’d come home from Afghanistan for leave, but the last such reunion had been more than six years ago – just before her mother died.

The young man, who obviously had keen ears, nodded. “Yes. Please, come with me, Ms Morstan.”

He led her into a foyer that looked as if it had been the set for some period drama, across it to another large, ornate door of dark, polished wood. On this door he knocked briefly and tossed it open at once, without waiting for an answer, and again, stepped to the side to let her in.

The room behind the door was large – probably the remnant of what had once been the great hall, an inevitable part of every grand Tudor house – and elegantly furnished with antique furniture. It seemed all very practical and functional: a beautiful fireplace, a long table, six high-backed chairs with soft leather upholstery, a little further away even a sofa with the matching overstuffed armchairs… everything but those… those _things_ in the further corners, standing out starkly against the heavy, dark brocade curtains that had been pulled away from the French window that bore the stained glass image of various coat-of-arms.

“Why has your boss horses in his dining room?” she asked in bewilderment, staring at the matching pair of horsed knights that seemed a bit out of place in the rich but functional environment.

Like five hundred years out of place.

“I assure you, Ms Morstan, that I don’t have horses in my _drawing_ room,” a soft, cultured voice replied, and a tall man in an expensive three-piece-suit rose from one of the armchairs with fluid elegance. “Those are merely two sets of armour brought back from the East by one of my ancestors in a sudden bout of questionable taste. Unfortunately, family tradition prevents me from getting rid of them.”

While speaking, he walked closer, picked up Mary’s nerveless hand and kissed it gallantly. She needed all he willpower not to snatch her hand away, the ingrained warning of _wrongness_ , that she shouldn’t allow _any_ touch, still overwhelmingly strong.

“I’m glad you had the presence of mind to follow the instructions of my personal assistant and got here safely,” he continued. “I am Mycroft Holmes. I understand that you’ve already met my little brother, Sherlock,” he gestured towards a second man, lounging across the sofa, all stork-limbs and unruly dark curls and killer cheekbones; she recognized the customer with the old lady from two days previously. “And I think I don’t need to introduce Dr Watson.”

_JOHN_! The rest of the world was blended out for Mary as soon as she spotted him, sitting ramrod-straight in the other armchair, his chin defiantly raised, his left hand clenching and unclenching in an unconscious gesture she didn’t know from before. The John she used to know didn’t have such nervous tics.

He was basically the same he’d been during their last reunion – and yet he’d changed a lot. He looked older, and not only because of the shocking amount of grey in his hair. His eyes seemed to have sunk deeper in his face, made appear larger by the dark rings around them; and there was a sadness in them only people who’d seen too much and suffered too much would display. The military haircut didn’t help, either, making his face look gaunt, and something was wrong with his left shoulder – he seemed to hold it in a peculiar way she was unfamiliar with.

Yes, he looked older than the six years apart would have justified; the age difference between them more apparent than before. And yet she found him every bit as gorgeous as when she’d fallen in love with the then fresh-faced junior doctor – only in a different way.

“ _JOHN_!” she whispered, trying to trust her own eyes and failing. She needed to make sure that he was real, now. “Oh, John, I missed you so much!”

Forgetting everything and everyone present, she stumbled towards him across the large, unfamiliar room, _closer_ , she needed to get closer, to feel solid human flesh under her fingertips, to reassure herself that he wasn’t a drug-induced hallucination. He rose from the armchair warily to intercept her; then the unused-to heels get caught in the carpet, and she was falling… falling… falling…

She could feel the long-missed, familiar strength of the arms that caught her before she’d pass out from the shock and excitement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When she came to again, she was lying on the sofa, her head on John’s lap, and John was holding her hand. Surprisingly enough, the urge to pull her hand away did not flash up in the back of her mind.

But, of course, this was _JOHN_. Her stepfather never had any power over John; which was the reason why he had tried to break them up from the beginning.

“Better?” John asked quietly, and she nodded.

“I’m fine, John. It was just too much excitement, after having lived in a cage, drugged up to my ears, for years.”

“Do you think you can sit up? You might still feel a bit dizzy…”

“I’m sure I will; withdrawal is setting in, and it will be a lot worse before it gets better, especially as I don’t have my spices on me to counteract the effects,” slowly, carefully and with much help from John, she managed to manoeuvre herself into a vertical position… more or less. “A cup of tea would be helpful, though. You still know how I like mine, don’t you?”

John shot her a half-amused, mock-insulted look that clearly said: _Are you kidding me?_ – and scurried away to fix her a cuppa. The other two occupants of the room remained in awkward silence, exchanging occasional looks of mild impatience.

John returned in record time, carrying a large, steaming RAMC mug, and Mary had to laugh. In this posh, unfamiliar house that was screaming power and old money, it was so very John to bring her tea in his old Army mug, instead of some fancy bone china cup that he would doubtlessly have found by the dozens somewhere around.

“Don’t you _dare_ to change, John Watson,” she said, her eyes full of tears. “Don’t you _ever_ dare to change!”

John said nothing, just shrugged modestly and handed her the mug of tea. Darjeeling, with just a teaspoon of honey, as she liked. She bather her face in the fragrant vapours with her eyes falling shut.

Soon, she would have to pick up her life, such as it was, trying to struggle herself free from the drugs, from her stepfather, from the sect. But for this one, fleeting moment the word was in order again. She had John again – even though it might not last.

~TBC~


	11. The Curious End of Julia Morstan

**PART 11 – THE CURIOUS END OF JULIA MORSTAN**

“Now that the touching reunion is out of the way,” Sherlock said with his usual lack of discretion, “perhaps you can tell us how you ended up as the shop girl of a charlatan who uses drugs to make his followers dependent.”

“Sherlock!” John and Mycroft hissed in unison, but Mary silenced them with a raised hand.

“No, he’s right. You need to know the truth; although, men of influence as you appear to be, I assume you’ve already checked my stepfather’s background.”

“We have,” Mycroft admitted. “And yours as well. I’m sorry, Ms Morstan, but it was necessary… or do you prefer Ms Marsti?”

Mary shook her head. “No. Mira Marsti is but a creation of my stepfather; a fantasy, a puppet, playing its part to cover what is truly going on in his house.”

“If he really has everything and everyone under such tight control, I wonder how you managed to break out long enough to marry John in the first place,” Sherlock said,

“It was different while my mother was still alive,” Mary explained. “She did not exactly support my decision to live outside Hindu tradition, but she loved me enough to let me make my own choices.”

“She still didn’t like me, though,” John commented dryly.

“No,” Mary agreed. “If she could have had her way, I’d have married Cousin Sendhil and helped him run the _Babur_ , so that the money would remain in the family and tradition would be respected.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose a millimetre in surprise. The _Babur_ was a stylish Indian restaurant in south-eastern London, the popularity of which had been steadily increasing in the recent years, so that one had to book a table at least a month in advance. Marrying the manager would have been an extremely good match; and not only financially. He had visited the Babur once or twice himself and knew that said manager, Sendhil Kumar Jhanji, looked like every woman’s wet dream: tall, slim and beautiful like a bronze statue.

And Mary had chosen John Watson instead? Women never ceased to surprise him.

“In any case,” Mary continued, “when our mother died – she was killed six years ago in a railway accident near Crewe – my stepfather _persuaded_ me to get a divorce and come and live with him and with my sister.”

“What kind of _persuasion_ are we talking about?” John asked, his eyes dark with barely controlled rage.

“He sold our house without asking me,” Mary replied with a sigh. “And he kept drilling me how lonely Julia was without me and how her depression might lead to a tragedy if she was left alone.”

“I can’t remember Julia being depressive,” John said.

“She wasn’t; not until Mother’s death,” Mary replied. “But after that, she became strangely moody and more and more obsessed with our stepfather’s obscure teachings. I’m quite sure, in hindsight, that he was feeding her drugs because she only seemed herself when we visited Aunt Honoria.”

“That terrible old hag is still alive?” John asked in surprise; then, for the Holmes brothers, he added. “Miss Honoria Westphal was the maiden aunt of Mary’s late father. She used to live near Harrow. Mary dragged me there once or twice, hoping that we might get some support from her, but she didn’t seem to like me, either.”

“She didn’t like men in general,” Mary smiled sadly. “Don’t take it personally. But no, she’s not alive anymore. She died roughly two years ago; shortly before Julia did.”

“What the hell happened to Julia?” John asked, frowning. “She was as healthy as an ox, despite the ridiculous vegetarian diet she kept; how could she just have died without forewarning?”

“That’s a question that has been torturing me for the last two years,” Mary admitted. “She appeared to be getting better, so that we were allowed to spend Christmas at Aunt Honoria’s. There she met a certain Navy officer, the son of one of Auntie’s old friends. They were instantly attracted to each other, and for the first time in her life, Julia acted spontaneously and with great courage. By the end of the holidays, she became engaged to her Lieutenant Commander and called our stepfather to tell him that she won’t be returning to his house. Aunt Honoria offered her to stay with her, and Julia gladly accepted.”

“I can imagine that Dr Roylott wasn’t happy about this turn of events,” Sherlock commented. “I saw the will of your mother; the marriage of either of you would have caused him severe financial losses.”

“Still, he couldn’t raise any objections, since both Julia and I were of age and could legally do as we pleased,” Mary said. “So he pretended to be happy for her; merely concerned about the swiftness of this engagement. Then, within a fortnight of the day which had been chosen for the wedding, Aunt Honoria suddenly died of a heart failure.”

“How… convenient,” John muttered.

“It was a bit too convenient,” Mary agreed, “but she was an old woman – nearly nineteen, in fact – and the autopsy showed that she’d died of natural causes. The wedding had to be postponed, of course, and Julia moved back to our stepfather’s house.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked with a frown. “Couldn’t she have stayed in the old lady’s house?”

“She could have; more so as Aunt Honoria had willed the house to the two of us,” Mary replied. “But I could not move in with her – couldn’t leave the shop untended to – and she was afraid to stay there alone. She told me that in the night of Aunt Honoria’s death she’d been awakened by a low, clear whistle. Then there was a clanging sound, apparently, as if a heavy object made of solid metal had fallen. She ran into Aunt Honoria’s bedroom and found our dear old aunt convulsing in terrible pain, shrieking something about a speckled band.”

“A speckled band?” Sherlock replied, honestly baffled. “Curious. What that might mean, I wonder.”

“I don’t know, Mr Holmes,” Mary answered with a weary sigh. “Julia called an ambulance, of course, but by the time it arrived, our poor aunt had lost consciousness. The doctors tried to revive her but to no effect; she died some twenty minutes later, without recovering her consciousness.”

The men in the room exchanged meaningful looks with Martha.

“Sounds like poison,” John finally commented.

“But wouldn’t the traces of poison show up at the autopsy?” Martha asked.

John shook his head. “Some natural poisons, like those of certain snakes and plants, can either be absorbed by the body completely, or they are successfully camouflaged by the seemingly natural symptoms they cause. And almost ninety year old lady had a bad dream, took a terrible fright and died of a heart failure – who would ever suspect foul play?”

“Julia did,” Mary said quietly. “She was sure that our stepfather had been in that house in the night Aunt Honoria died.”

“Had she seen him?” Mycroft asked.

Mary shook her head. “No. But she recognised the strong Indian cigars he sometimes smokes. The scent has long impregnated all his clothes; I can even smell him in the midst of my spices whenever he enters the shop.”

Sherlock nodded. “I remember that scent; frankly, it is quite offensive. Still, I’d like to examine the ash. I can’t remember having it in my collection.”

“Sherlock, focus!” John chided him; then he turned back to Mary. “Why did Julia return to Roylott’s house again?”

“Because she was deadly afraid of staying there alone,” Mary replied. “She felt safer with me, even in _his_ house; not that it did her any good. Two weeks later she was dead, too.”

“Dead by what?” Mycroft asked.

“Heart failure,” Mary answered with a grim smile. “Sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? She wasn’t even thirty and, as John said, healthy like an ox. The police weren’t happy with the verdict, but there was simply nothing else to find.”

“Have you spoken with sour sister before her death,” Mycroft continued his investigation.

Mary nodded. “Yes. Back then, I weren’t sleeping above the shop yet, and our bedrooms were side by side. I woke up hearing something – or someone – taking a heavy fall (John could tell you that I’m a light sleeper), and hurried over to Julia. She was lying on the floor, writhing in pain. Before she would lose consciousness, she stared at me in horror and whispered. _The band, Mira! The speckled band! I saw it_!”

“She called you Mira?”

“Yes; our stepfather demanded that we use our Indian names, and it was easier to just let him have his way. We needed to pick our battles carefully. Anyway, I ran to get help then, but it was already too late for Julia.”

“Did you tell your stepfather what she’d said?”

“Of course not, I’m not an idiot!” Mary rolled her eyes. “If he knew that I’d learned about the speckled band, whatever it might be, I wouldn’t be sitting here, chatting with you. He’d have long killed me, too.”

John wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, love. He can’t get you here, and anyway, his killing days will soon be over, won’t they, Mycroft?”

There was a clear warning in his voice while saying that.

“Oh, yes,” the elder Holmes drawled. “Before we could arrest him, though, we need to get hold on whatever poisons and drugs he has to his disposal. In the wrong hands they could cause great harm and, as we know, not even the police are above suspicion.”

“And yours are the right hands, I suppose?” John asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Unfortunately, being a Holmes made one immune against sarcasm.

“Naturally,” Mycroft replied simply.

“And how exactly are you planning to find the stuff?” Sherlock asked with an astonishing mix of utter dismay and eager curiosity.

Mycroft shrugged. “Anthea is working on it; but if we want to find hard proof against Dr Roylott, we need to do more than just find the drugs. We need to catch him red-handed.”

“In that case,” Sherlock said, “a nice little trap would be rather handy, don’t you think? We should use the fact that Anthea currently looks like Ms Morstan to our advantage.”

~TBC~


	12. Hide & Seek

**PART 12 – HIDE & SEEK**

Anthea had been successfully mimicking Mary in the _Spice Bazaar_ in the recent days. Of course, the fact that she’d filed away the body language and the speech patterns of the mistress of spices proved helpful. She also got extensive data about the customers from Mummy through a live feed that could only have been discovered with the help of Gallifreyan technology – which, fortunately, Dr Roylott didn’t have to his disposal.

Still, her situation was a dangerous one, even for an android from the far future. She might be resilient – much more than the average organic being – but she wasn’t indestructible. Especially the semi-organic components of her body were equally vulnerable to substances that could destroy human flesh. And while poisons couldn’t _kill_ her – as, in strictly human terms, she wasn’t _alive_ – they could cause serious necrosis to her soft tissue. Damage that wouldn’t be possible to fix with 21st-century technology.

Granted, the Watcher did have a great deal of alien technology at his hands, but creating the right tissue might have been too great a challenge, even for him.

Therefore Anthea knew that she had to be careful. Dr Roylott was clearly a ruthless man; she was in danger, even if he believed that she _was_ Mary. She might not get away undamaged – or at all – should he realise that she _wasn’t_.

Still, she had a job to do here, and she’d already done part of it. Her sensors – so much more sensitive and accurate than mere human senses – had already identified large amounts of various mind-altering drugs (mostly assorted kinds of opiates) under the heaps of spices. The penetrating smell of hundreds of spices overlaid the drugs so well that not even a sniffer dog would ever found them.

Which answered the main question: why would Dr Roylott need the _Spice Bazaar_ to begin with.

The tap water was laced with drugs, too; she analysed a mouthful of it and found a substance that wasn’t even listed in the police databases but had similar effects to LSD. She sent the description of the chemical components to Mummy, asking for a planetwide search for any plants that might have produced it. It was an organic substance, not something mixed in a lab, which made the search even more complicated.

She found a different substance in the meagre Vegan food she was served by one of Dr Roylott’s followers, a skeletal boy of twenty-something, wearing the usual rough white robes of the acolytes and a sorry excuse of a beard. All male acolytes that she could see move across the courtyard wore beards; perhaps it was a symbol of rank or position within the sect.

Again, she made a quick analysis and sent the results to Mummy, asking for tests how the two substances would work together. Then she ate the food anyway; it wouldn’t be good to raise any suspicions.

In the late afternoon Dr Roylott paid her an unexpected visit. It was one outside the usual pattern, and that alarmed her. The man was no fool. Underestimating him would have been a mistake. So she demurely brought the books when he asked for them to check the daily income – which had been nothing out of the ordinary. Her allies had _not_ shown up, for obvious reasons.

She also made sure that her pupils were dilated enough for him to believe that the drugs had indeed worked effectively. Having an android body and thus full control of its functions was a useful thing.

“Well, it seems to have been a fairly average day,” Dr Roylott finally said, closing the books. “Perhaps you should close up a bit earlier today. You look tired, my child.”

“I do feel a bit under the weather,” she admitted, knowing that the drugs were supposed to make her feel like that.

“Then you should rest,” Dr Roylott said with a benevolent smile. “Come over to the _ashram_. Jemimah’s room is still empty; perhaps getting away from the strong smells will help.”

“But… but I’m not allowed to leave the shop!” she protested.

“Child,” Dr Roylott answered patiently. “The shop and the _ashram_ are in the same building. Coming over to join the rest of the community for a while wouldn’t mean that you’d be violating the rules. And it would do you a wealth of good. You’ve been too isolated here for quite some time.”

He spoke in a low, suggestive voice, and Anthea understood that Mary would follow the suggestion without resistance, despite the faulty logic behind it. So she’d have to do the same.

“If you are certain,” she murmured with downcast eyes.

Dr Roylott gave her another one of those sickeningly benevolent smiles.

“I _am_ certain, child. You should trust your Shastri Mohashai; I only ever protect your best interests. All those strangers showing up in the shop lately have drained your strength. Their troubled spirits have taken their toll on you. Come, you need to rest.”

Without actually touching her, he shepherded her to the back door with the sheer strength of his dominant personality. Or so he believed anyway. Anthea made a convincing display of fear and reluctance to actually leave the spice shop and cross the inner courtyard that separated it from the rest of the house. Dr Roylott patiently cajoled her through what he thought would be her conditioning and steered him into the main building on the ground floor of which his so-called practice was situated.

It was fortunate that Anthea was an android, for no matter how detailed a description Mary had given of the layout of the house, a mere human would have betrayed herself by getting lost among the completely identical doors and corridors. She, of course, had the layout in her database and thus she went straight and without hesitation to the room that had once belonged to the late Julia Morstan.

Dr Roylott then wished her a restful night and left her alone.

Once on her own, the first thing Anthea did was to scan the room for any surveillance devices. To her surprise, she found none, which was highly suspicious. Dr Roylott was the ultimate control freak. If he chose to leave the room unwatched, it could only mean that he didn’t want any record of that which was about to happen in the room.

For Mary, that promised no good. For Anthea, it was practical, because she could examine the room undisturbed. She might even find something that gave her a clue about the cause of Julia Morstan’s mysterious death.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the case. The room was a little Spartan, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country houses. A chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing table on the left side of the only window. These simple pieces, with two small wickerwork chairs, made up all the furniture, save for a square, hand-made straw mat in the centre.

The walls were painted a strong white, with no decorative items anywhere. The window was shuttered; Anthea tried to force the shutters open, but without success. There was no slit through which as much as a knife could have been passed to raise the bar. Of course, she could have simply torn the whole window out of its frame with her superior strength, but that would have given her away, so she decided to continue her investigation with more… passive methods. So far she’d found nothing of interest.

The only thing that appeared somehow out of place was a thick bell-rope, which hung down on the side of the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. Mary hadn’t mentioned anything about servants that would tend to the family members, and besides, didn’t Dr Roylott go great lengths to isolate his stepdaughter from the rest of the world? Even from the rest of his sect?

Anthea didn’t share the human trait of hunches or suspicions, but everything that seemed to defy logic needed to be investigated. Thoroughly. Therefore she activated her advanced sensors again, examining minutely the cracks between the floor boards and the ones in the plain white paint that covered the wall.

She paid extra attention to the wall at which the bed stood, looking for any possible wires attached to the bell-rope. She found none; and when she gave a rope an experimental tug, her suspicions were confirmed: it was a dummy.

She found another weird detail about the room: an old-fashioned ventilator right about the bed, where the dummy bell-rope was attached. A ventilator that opened into the neighbouring room instead of into the outside and was thus every bit as useless as the bell-rope. She called up the layout of the house again and realized that the neighbouring room was Dr Roylott’s study.

The whole chamber smelled strongly of a death trap; and she knew that at least one person had already died in her, under mysterious circumstances.

It was time to call in the cavalry. Anthea made digital pictures of the room and sent them to Mummy for analysis. Then she suggested that the Watcher send her back-up. She saw an eighty-two per cent possibility that Dr Roylott would try to get rid of his stepdaughter – or of the person he _thought_ was his stepdaughter – in this very night.

~TBC~


	13. The Mystery About Dr Grimesby Roylott

**PART 13 – THE MYSTERY ABOUT DR GRIMESBY ROYLOTT**

In the morning after Mary’s escape Ianto came into the office of his boss with unexpected news.

“Sir, Mummy has finished the analysis on the skin sample of Dr Roylott, taken from the fire poker in 221B.”

Mycroft lowered _The Times_ he always read to breakfast and looked at him expectantly.

“Well, Mr Jones? Are we about to play twenty questions or are you willing to tell me the results right away? Anything interesting?”

“You can say so, sir,” Ianto handed him a PDA – a salvaged Torchwood-issue one – with the data. “According to the analysis, Dr Roylott _isn’t_ 65 years old as his file states.”

“No?” Mycroft wasn’t particularly shaken by that revelation. The current obsession with youth often made humans lie about their age. “How old _is_ he then?”

“Approximately two hundred years, give or take a decade or so,” Ianto replied blandly, and for a moment even Mycroft was rendered speechless.

“That’s impossible,” he said when he found his voice again. “Humans simply don’t live that long. Or are you telling me that he’s an alien?”

“No, sir; the DNA analysis turned out one hundred per cent human,” Ianto answered. “However, his tissue sample shows fine traces of Artron energy.”

“ _Artron_ energy?” Mycroft repeated in shock. “As in transdimensional travel? But he wasn’t a companion!”

“Not one of the Doctor’s, for sure,” Ianto agreed. “But perhaps another Time Lord…”

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s unlikely. The Doctor is the only one of us known to have travelled with steady companions. _Especially_ with human ones.”

“You’ve had Anthea as your companion for over a century by now,” Ianto pointed out reasonably.

“Four centuries, actually; but since she’s an android from outer space, it isn’t really relevant,” Mycroft corrected. “She can hardly be compared with a mere human. No; the Artron energy present in Dr Roylott’s cell tissue must have a different origin. We’re not the only ones who travel in time and between dimensions – we’re simply the ones who’ve perfected the technology to do so.”

“You mean he could be a rogue Time Agent?” Ianto asked, a bit doubtfully. The arrogance, the outrageous behaviour and the ruthless pursuing of one’s own agenda would meet the criteria – both Jack and John Hart had displayed similar traits on occasion – but what would an ex-Time Agent find on contemporary Earth so interesting?

Jack had a reason to stay – he had waited for the arrival of the Doctor and had no means to leave anyway. But another Time Agent? That was highly unlikely.

“I don’t believe so,” Mycroft clearly shared his doubts. “But he might have been – or perhaps still _is_ – in contact with somebody who does have the means to travel across dimensions.”

“Am I right in assuming that this is, as Dr Watson would say, a bit of not good, sir?” Ianto inquired, not the least shaken.

A man who’d already died twice did not panic so easily.

“No, Mr Jones,” Mycroft sighed. “This is more than just a bit not good. This is indeed very, very bad. Unauthorised time travel would be bad enough, but somebody hopping dimensions? That would be disastrous. Basically that’s what happened at Canary Wharf, and you’ve experienced the results first-hand.”

Ianto shook his head doubtfully. “Somehow I can’t imagine Dr Roylott wanting to switch dimensions. He appears much more interested in protecting whatever he’s got _here_ – whatever _that_ may be.”

“You have another theory?” Mycroft asked.

Ianto nodded. “Yep. I wonder… what if Dr Roylott isn’t a _descendant_ of the last squire of Stoke Moran? The one who went to India in the 19th century? What if he _is_ the original Grimesby Roylott who’s managed to stay alive with the help of some kind of alien technology?”

For a moment or two, Mycroft considered the possibility.

“Theoretically, it _is_ possible,” he finally said. “But where would he have got the alien technology from?”

“India would be my guess,” Ianto replied with a shrug. “Extraterrestrial activity has always been strong there. Strong enough for Torchwood to have a branch there; founded by Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Too bad it had been destroyed, together with their fantastic, hand-written Archives.”

“I thought all branches had to send copies to One,” Mycroft said.

Ianto nodded. “They had – and they did. But the database of One was wiped out for security reasons when the disaster started… and you know what happened to the Archives of Three.”

Of course Mycroft did. He was the Watcher, and Torchwood had always been one of the things he had kept a weather eye on. Which, unfortunately, didn’t mean that he’d have been able to prevent the destruction of all still existing branches – or the loss of data they had gathered during their existence.

“This is… inconvenient,” he stated in quiet frustration. “We need more data. Hopefully Anthea will find something useful.“

At this very moment a _ping_ sound alerted them to a text message sent to Ianto’s phone.”

“Oh,” he said. “Speaking of more data…”

“What?” demanded Mycroft, with an impatience uncharacteristic for him.

“Mummy tells me that Anthea’s asked for back-up,” Ianto replied. “Dr Roylott moved her into the main house, into a room that seems to her a trap. Shall I alert Sherlock and Dr Watson?”

“No,” Mycroft said promptly and sternly. “We don’t need them, and they’d just hinder us, since they’d have no idea what they were facing.”

“Neither do we, to be honest,” Ianto pointed out reasonably.

“True; but we can make an educated guess, at least,” Mycroft replied. “Call Dr Jones and Mr Smith. As this is a possible alien threat, we’ll need people with the right expertise.”

“ _We_?” echoed Ianto. “Are you planning to come with us, sir?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft gave him a jaundiced look. “Don’t make the mistake of believing the public persona I wear, Mr Jones. I’m still more than capable of dealing with any alien threat this quaint little planet might have to face.”

“Oh, I know that you _can_ , sir,” Ianto said. “I just haven’t seen you take part in such an action in person yet, is all.”

“I never had the reason to do so; not until now,” Mycroft replied. “But Grimesby Roylott threatened one of my own, and that’s not something I’ll suffer kindly.”

_That_ Ianto could understand. Jack’s attitude towards his team was very protective, too. He also remembered – with considerably less fondness – how the Doctor had done his best to save the Master, desperate everything that insane monster had inflicted upon Earth and its helpless inhabitants… while he dismissed the hundreds of deaths Jack had suffered aboard the _Valiant_ in a rather… cavalier manner.

Having hid in a locked-down Hub during The Year Than Never Was meant that he was one of the few people who remembered everything. Having a photographic memory that made him unable to forget things on the natural way proved a disadvantage in this case. As if he hadn’t had enough nightmare material before, thanks to Canary Wharf!

Sometimes he wished he _had_ gone off with the others to the Himalayas. But _someone_ had to stay back, feed the Weevils, take care of Myfanwy, watch the Hub – and Gwen and Owen had made it adamantly clear that the teaboy was the most expendable of them all.

Well, a fat lot of good had it done to them. The Hub was destroyed and they were all dead – even Ianto, sort of – with the exception of Gwen-bloody-Cooper, who always managed to wiggle out of every tight place with the persistence and undeserved good luck of a cockroach. And Jack was gone, lost in the vast depths of space, not knowing that he’d passed down his gift – or curse – of immortality to Ianto.

This was the worst part, actually. That they could have been living through eternity together; and Jack didn’t even know it. That he was still out there, grieving.

Mycroft, mildly telepathic like most of his people, shot him a concerned look.

“We _are_ looking, Ianto,” he said quietly. “The few contacts I still have out there are working on it. We _will_ find him, I promise. Right now, I need you to focus, though. We need to eliminate a potential alien threat; to save Earth if we have to. Isn’t that what Torchwood _does_?”

“Torchwood no longer exists,” Ianto replied bitterly. “Even Archie in Glasgow got murdered during the 456 crisis, his Archives blown up; and Torchwood House is empty and sealed.”

“ _You_ are still here, though,” Mycroft reminded him. “At the moment, you _are_ Torchwood. If you want to, you can restart your old work eventually; I’m quite certain that Dr Jones and Mr Smith would gladly join you.”

Ianto shook his head. “No, sir; I don’t want to return to Cardiff; not now, not for a long time yet. Besides, people think I’m dead. _And_ you need me.”

Mycroft nodded. “For the time being, yes. But my brother won’t wear his disguise forever; and eventually, the Rift will have to be watched again. We’re fortunate that it’s entered a passive phase some time ago, but that won’t last. In a few years, Torchwood Three will be needed again; probably more than before. Which is another reason why we’re looking for Captain Harkness: to rebuild Torchwood Cardiff and keep guarding the Rift.”

“ _If_ he’s willing,” Ianto said with emphasis. “He might have had enough of Torchwood. Of Cardiff. Of Earth in general.”

“He will, as long as you’re on his side,” Mycroft replied with a mild scowl. “Sentiment. It _has_ to make everything infinitely more complicated. But it won’t be forever. In a century or two, the people of Earth will be able to deal with such things on their own; and you both have got the time. Now, however, we must go and help Anthea. Do you have the layout of the house?”

Ianto nodded. “In my head, sir.”

“Then do call the others and let us go. We might not have the luxury to waste our time. I want this problem dealt with, tonight, once and forever.

~TBC~


	14. In the Serpent's Lair

**PART 14 – IN THE SERPENT'S LAIR**

One had to give the Doctor’s ex-companions one thing: they were ready to go in an amazingly short time when the need arose. Martha Jones and Mickey Smith came to the garage, armed and ready, less than ten minutes after Ianto had placed the call.

“If something or someone can switch between dimensions, projectile weapons are useless,” Mickey announced. “The projectiles are too slow. A high-energy taser, however, can interrupt the energy flow and prevent their escape.”

“And you just happen to have one of those on you,” Ianto said.

It wasn’t a question, and Mickey grinned ferally.

“ _That_ ,” he declared, “has nothing to do with happenstances, Torchwood. It’s called being ready. All the time. Like the ruddy Boy Scouts.”

Ianto rolled his eyes but held back any comments concerning the fact that Mickey would never have made into the Boy Scouts to begin with. It wouldn’t have done any good. In some things Mickey was a lost case. Fortunately, in the more important things he was eminently useful.

“Orders, sir?” he asked instead.

“You and I are going to search Dr Roylott’s room,” Mycroft replied. “Dr Jones and Mr Smith will remain with Anthea and take apart that fake ventilator. I don’t like the sound of it; who knows what the man might be hiding there?”

“Couldn’t it be simply a means to channel poisonous gas into the room of Ms Morstan?” Martha asked. “That sealed window sounds suspicious, too, at the very least.”

“Only if he has the means of keeping the gas from getting back into his own room,” pointed out Ianto.

“Which is why we need to take the thing apart,” Mycroft said. “No, can we get on with it before the night is over?”

The others shut up obediently and filed out of the house. They took Ianto’s car, in the hope to avoid unwanted attention, and Martha suppressed a grin seeing how uncomfortable Mycroft appeared, folding his long limbs into the confined space. Not that the Audi would have been really _that_ small – only compared with the sleek black vessels Mycroft regularly used.

“Sorry to cramp your style, sir,” deadpanned Ianto, who had noticed Mycroft’s discomfort as well, while sliding behind the steering wheel.

The glare the exiled Time Lord gave him would have made an entire platoon of Judoons quake in their boots. Ianto didn’t even blink; just smiled serenely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They approached Dr Roylott’s house in a roundaway manner through side streets, while Mycroft kept contact with Anthea via Mummy, using his Gallifreyan communications device disguised as a common Blackberry. After arriving, they remained in the car until Mummy notified them that all security cameras in the house had been hacked and fed neutral images of the empty street.

“Be quick,” Mycroft instructed them, getting out first, glad for the chance to stretch his legs. “They might decide to go around in person and check on things from time to time.”

Following Mary’s previous instructions they found the back door of the house easily enough. In earlier times it must have been the servants’ entrance; what purpose it might serve _now_ was everybody’s guess, considering that no-one was supposed to leave the house, ever – with the exception of Dr Roylott himself, of course.

According to this fact, the door was closed.

“Where’s a sonic screwdriver when you need one?” Martha muttered unhappily.

Mycroft gave him an offended look. ”Oh, for God’s sake, Dr Jones! Why on Earth would I stoop to the use of a _sonic_ device?”

He took the beautiful fountain pen from his inner pocket and pointed at the door with it. The top of the pen began to glow in a soft golden light. The various locking mechanisms rattled for a moment as the keys turned and the latches snapped – and then the door opened with a barely audible creak.

Mickey whistled soundlessly. “That was cool, boss! What is this neat little gizmo anyway?”

“A simple quantum device,” Mycroft replaced the pen into his pocket. ”Shall we then?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Following the plan, Mycroft sent Martha and Mickey to Anthea, while he and Ianto headed to Dr Roylott’s inner apartment. According to Mary’s intel, the man usually celebrated the evening prayer – or meditation or yoga exercises or whatever – with his followers at this time of the day. Said ceremony would last as long as three hours, and afterwards the doctor liked to spend some time alone with the one or other sect member in her private rooms. So they hopefully had the time to search those rooms thoroughly... if they did it quickly.

The door leading to this private sanctuary was not locked – nobody would dare to enter without invitation, most likely – and when they opened it, they saw in surprise that it was all one large room, separated by artfully painted wooden screens. It was airy and well-lit through two large windows, though these were obscured by floor-length curtains.

It was sparsely furnished, in a style that mixed traditional furniture with an Oriental flair. A low, rectangular bedframe – known in India as a _charpa_ – stood in one corner, discretely screened, covered by a cashmere throw and a great deal of small, flat silk cushions in once brilliant yet now faded colours. An old-fashioned bureau with a matching armchair stood between the two windows, clearly serving as a desk.

The wall on the right was practically hidden behind the open bookshelves, artfully carved of dark, polished wood; the motifs spoke of Indian handiwork. Surprisingly enough, most books were of scientific or technical nature – not exactly what one would expect from a traditionalist ayurveda doctor.

There was a small, round table with a _hookah_ , an Oriental water pipe positioned on it – and a large, old-fashioned iron safe on the left side of the bureau, screened off from the rest of the room. A beautiful, albeit faded Persian rug lay in the mostly empty middle of the room.

“Has Mary mentioned the safe?” Mycroft asked, scanning every piece of furniture with hi quantum pen.

Ianto, who was doing the same with his Torchwood-issue handheld device, nodded absent-mindedly.

“Apparently, this is where Dr Roylott keeps his business papers,” he replied.

“Has she ever seen it open?”

“Only once, some years ago; before the death of her mother. She remembers that it was full of papers.”

“Interesting,” commented Mycroft languidly.

Ianto raised an eyebrow. ”Is it? In what way, sir?”

“In the way that it emanates a high level of Artron energy,” Mycroft answered grimly. “Whatever it is that has contaminated Dr Roylott, is being kept in there.”

“I think we’re going to learn what that is very soon,” Ianto said, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps from the corridor. “He’s coming.”

“Behind the screen, quickly!” Mycroft hissed.

They barely had the time to hide behind one of the screens each when the door opened and Dr Grimesby Roylott walked in, leaning heavily on a bamboo walking stick.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He looked very differently from the aggressive, imposing man that had visited (and threatened) Sherlock in 221B. His posture was slack, his face had an unhealthy pallor and he moved slowly, almost painfully... like a man twice his apparent age. He was muttering something under his breath in a language that sounded Hindi but beyond recognising it, Ianto didn’t understand (although he knew Mycroft did, due to his connection to Mummy), while all but dragging himself to the safe.

Ianto, hiding behind a screen within reach, held his breath.

With badly shaking hands, Dr Roylott pulled a key ring with only two keys out of his trouser pocket. It took him several attempts, but in the end he managed to unlock the safe.

“Come, come, my beauty,” he murmured, this time in English, and tossed the heavy iron door open with some difficulty. “Come and work your magic. Bring me new life, as you always do.” He then wobbled over to the armchair and practically collapsed in it.

From the safe, a strange creature emerged. It had a long, translucent, milky white, sinuous body – as long and thick as a man’s arm – with irregular silver speckles and the diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a serpent. However, it wasn’t like any serpent that had ever lived on Earth. It had no visible eyes, and the outline of its body flickered, as if its shape were not constant... or not fully solid.

Nonetheless, it could move around as smoothly and surely as any common reptile. It slithered lazily along the wall, then wound its way up the curtain cord that touched the floor, and vanished through the ventilator shaft opening into the late Julia Morstan’s room.

Mycroft uttered an oath in Gallifreyan and kicked the screen behind which he’d been hiding to the side.

“Watch the man!” he ordered Ianto. ”I think I know what we’re dealing with; and if I’m right, the others will need me.”

“Of course, sir,” Ianto replied calmly to the retreating back of his boss.

Then he took out his gun – a Torchwood-issue one, enhanced with alien technology – aimed at Dr Roylott and leaned causally against the open safe.

“Well, doctor,” he said with a bland smile. “It seems that it’s just you and me at the moment. I suggest that you behave peacefully. I have no intention to hurt you... unless you give me a reason, which would be _very_ unwise.”

~TBC~


	15. Serpent's Venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The Ophidian was borrowed from the Star Trek – The Next Generation episode “Time’s Arrow” but has different traits and purposes here.
> 
> The “science” in this chapter is wacky at best, but again, so is it generally with Dr. Who. I don’t really expect anyone to buy it – it’s only there to drive the plot forth, so bear with me.

**PART 75 – SERPENT’S VENOM**

Anthea, Martha and Mickey had nearly finished the thorough examination of Julia Morstan’s room when the door flew open and Mycroft stormed in, holding his fountain pen as if it were a weapon. Which, under certain circumstances it could very well be, of course.

“Get away from the ventilator shaft!” he snapped at Mickey.”In fact, get behind us, both you and Dr Jones. Anthea, drop the disguise and initiate Emergency Protocol Delta Nine, now!”

After a moment of hesitation on behalf of Mickey and Martha who had never seen her in battle modus before, the android removed the perception filter that made her look like Mary Morstan and dropped her human disguise entirely. Cybernetic implants emerged from under her synthetic skin, spread and melded with each other, until every single inch of her was covered in paper-thin, gleaming titanium alloy – with the exception of her eyes, which were now protected by transparent metallic eyelids. Only her voice remained the same: deceivingly soft and gentle.

“Stay behind me, sir,” she said.”Your body is as vulnerable as that of any other human; and you don’t have a protective exoskeleton as I do.”

“I’m afraid not even your battle-dress would provide enough protection against an Ophidian,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Damned thing is in a quantum flux, switching between realities at will. My pen is our only chance; if I can hit its central nerve knot with a well-aimed bundle of quantum energy, I might be able to interrupt its cycle and trap it in a single form permanently.”

“You _might_?” Martha didn’t like the sound of _that_.

“It’s all purely theoretical,” Mycroft admitted. “Has never been tried before. But it’s our best shot.”

“Well, let’s hope it will be your best shot, boss,” Mickey muttered under his breath,” Or we are so screwed...”

“I shall endeavour to do my best, Mr Smith,” Mycroft replied loftily. “Just stay back and don’t make any abrupt movements. They’re predators that attack what they see as flying prey.”

“ _See_?” Mickey stared at the diamond-shaped head of the alien snake that appeared in the ventilator shift at that moment with vague disgust. “It doesn’t even have _eyes_!”

“Not obvious ones like yours and mine, true,” Mycroft agreed. “However, those silver speckles all over its body are visual receptors. Not terribly good ones, granted, but with them it can perceive light, darkness, colours and movement around itself in a two-metre-radius well enough, so hold back.”

“I’ll distract it,” Anthea offered, “They’re attracted to shiny objects, like magpies. The bigger and shinier, the better – and in this armour I’m certainly shiny enough.”

Mycroft nodded.”Keep it occupied until I can manoeuvre myself into a good shooting position.”

“Will do, sir,” she promised.

The alien was oozing out of the ventilator shaft, slowly like molten glass... or molten metal. As soon as it reached the floor, it zoomed on to Anthea, who didn’t move from the spot, just swayed back and forth slowly, in an almost hypnotic pattern. To the two ex-companions’ surprise, the alien serpent rose with fluid grace until it was only touching the floor with the last ten inches of its body, its eyeless head reaching to Anthea’s shoulder, and began to sway in unison with her. It was like watching a snake charmer with a cobra; Martha and Mickey forgot to even breathe.

Anthea made slow, subtle changes that served to expose the most vulnerable part of the alien’s anatomy to Mycroft. The Time Lord stood utterly still, so that he wouldn’t catch the creature’s many “eyes”; fortunately, in his dark suit he was near-invisible for the Ophidian. But its hearing was acute, and it would soon pick up his heartbeat, so he had to hurry.

Finally, Anthea had managed to make the serpent turn enough so that its puffed-up hood was directly in Mycroft’s firing line. All he had to do was to activate his pen and hit the major nerve knot with the quantum beam.

Even so, he barely managed it. The Ophidian picked up the low hum of the energy build-up coming from the pen and recoiled like a striking cobra. It was lightning-fast in attack mode – much faster than one would have expected.

Fortunately, Time Lord reflexes were pretty quick, too, even in human disguise. The tightly bundled quantum energy beam hit the Ophidian on the right spot; it writhed as if it had been electrocuted and released a high-pitched noise of distress that shattered the window planes in a second. Shards of broken glass were raining everywhere; Martha and Mickey grabbed the first available screen to save themselves, and Martha briefly wondered if they’d all go deaf from the noise, soon.

But that was basically the end of it. In the next moment the serpent went still, twitching harmlessly – and helplessly – on the floor.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Mycroft asked Anthea who had been swept off her feet during the throes of the creature.

“I’m damaged, sir; but nothing that couldn’t be repaired, given enough time and the right tools,” she clambered back to her feet and pushed the control implant to take her armour melt back into her body.

It was a cool effect; like the helmets of Ra’s guards in the original Stargate movie, Mickey found. That movie really had the best special effects, even if one preferred the TV-series.

“Is it dead?” he edged closer to the still twitching creature. ”Or do we need to finish it off?”

“It is hibernating; sort of,” Mycroft replied. “Ophidians do that when their ability to switch dimensions is compromised. That is how they can live for centuries. Bring the containment box; we’ll put it into a cryogenic unit in the basement for the time being.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” Anthea offered. “You’ll need to deal with Dr Roylott; he’s the more dangerous partner in this symbiosis.”

“Symbiosis?” Martha echoed in shock.”With this... _thing_?”

“Ophidians aren’t sentient creatures; well, not very much,” Mycroft explained.”On their homeworld, which is a gas giant in the Rho Corona Borealis system, a quarter closer to its sun than Earth to Sol, they float in the upper layers of the atmosphere, hunting smaller airborne creatures that feed on the gas and the solar energy. They are, however, capable of latching onto other life forms and can be steered by a higher intellect.”

“But how did it end up on Earth?” Martha asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “According to Mr Jones, the Indian subcontinent seems to have its own, much smaller version of the Rift, running right under Delhi. Which is why Torchwood used to have a house there. Perhaps it simply fell through the anomaly centuries ago, and Dr Roylott happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“But that would mean the man is several hundred years old!” Mickey protested. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “But Mummy’s analysis of his tissue sample shows that he is, indeed, at least two hundred years old; probably even older.”

“Rejuvenation through transfer of life energy from one human to another,” Ianto’s voice supplied, as the young man came over from Dr Roylott’s room. “It seems that Ophidians can do that if trained properly... and kept from switching dimensions.”

“Mr Jones,” Mycroft said coldly.”I thought I told you to keep an eye on Dr Roylott.”

“It’s not necessary, sir,” Ianto replied, completely unfazed. “He’s dying. If you want to ask him any questions, I suggest that you hurry up, cos he won’t last much longer. Without the Ophidian to replenish his life energy, his condition is deteriorating rapidly.”

Mycroft glanced at Anthea and the android nodded.

“Go, sir; Mr Smith and I are more than capable of dealing with things here. And Dr Roylott may be in need for medical assistance.”

“I’m afraid he’s beyond any doctor’s help,” Ianto said. “There’s no medicine against old age, and that’s finally caught up with him.”

“Oh, very funny, Mr Jones,” Mycroft rolled his eyes but followed his ninja butler, as Sherlock would call the young Welshman, back to Dr Roylott’s room.

~TBC~


	16. Cheating Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. The Ophidian was borrowed from the Star Trek – The Next Generation episode “Time’s Arrow” but has different traits and purposes here.
> 
> The “science” in this chapter is wacky at best, but again, so is it generally with Dr. Who. I don’t really expect anyone to buy it – it’s only there to drive the plot forth, so bear with me.

**PART 16 – CHEATING DEATH**

The sight that greeted them was... not pleasant, to say the least. Though still breathing, the pitiful creature slumped in Dr Roylott’s armchair resembled a mummified corpse. In truth, he seemed to have aged at least a century in the previous half an hour – and even to have shrunk accordingly. Most of his hair was gone, and his parchment-like skin full of spots caused by high age.

Ianto, who – alone of the Torchwood Three team – had _not_ gone off to the Himalayas by Harold Saxon’s orders ( _somebody_ had to keep the Hub running and the Weevils fed, and who else would have been left home than the teaboy) therefore remembered the Year That Never Was, due to the fact that he had been sitting atop the Rift all the time. Now, looking at the man in front of him, he was painfully reminded of the wizened little troll the Doctor had become aboard the _Valiant_ , due to the Master’s manipulations. Not that he’d have felt particularly sorry for the Doctor, but the memory was irreversibly bound with the knowledge what Jack had had to suffer during the same time, and that knowledge still haunted him.

A quick glance at Mycroft’s hardening face revealed that the Time Lord was fighting the same memories.

Mycroft had been fortunate enough to go into hiding just in time before the Master would have started his reign of horror and insanity. Even though his TARDIS was broken beyond repair, its heart still existed, not only feeding Mummy with knowledge and energy but also creating a temporal bubble around Mycroft’s hiding place, so that he, too, kept his memories after the reset of time – despite the fact that he sometimes wished he hadn’t.

This was one of those times.

Ianto brought a chair from another room and placed it opposite Dr Roylott’s bureau, so that his boss could sit and interrogate the old man in relative comfort. Mycroft nodded his thanks and sat, crossing his legs with an elegant swing, ankle over knee.

“Well, Dr Roylott,” he said conversationally. “Let us talk while you still can, shall we? I believe I do have the general picture now, but I’d like to have the details set straight.”

The clouded, ancient eyes glared at him with immeasurable hatred.

“You!” the old man creaked. “You’ve ruined... ruined _everything_. How do you dare...? Who the hell _are_ you?”

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” even though the man was clearly dying, the Time Lord saw no reason to reveal his true identity. “You’ve recently made the mistake of threatening my little brother. I do not take such threats lightly. You shouldn’t have challenged me by going after my family, doctor. You never had the chance to win.”

“I’ve defeated... worse foes than just... some posh git,” Dr Roylott creaked. “You... don’t know who... you’re ... up against...”

“ _Whom_ ,” Mycroft corrected automatically, irritated as always by these humans’ lack of respect for their own language. “You’d do better to yield, Dr Roylott. We’ve neutralised your Ophidian; it won’t come back to rejuvenate you again.”

“Ophidian... so that’s what she is,” the old man muttered. “I always... wondered... where she came from.”

“ _It_ ,” Mycroft corrected. “Ophidians are genderless creatures that procreate via parthenogenesis. As for where it came from: they live in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant, approximately fifty light years from Earth.”

The old man coughed weakly, his reddened eyes widening in surprise.

“Mercury... she’s an _alien_? You... gotta be kidding...”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly. “Their species is capable of transdimensional travel if irritated with the right kind of energy – which, fortunately, can’t be found on Earth in its pure form; not in this century anyway.”

“Sir,” Ianto said quietly, “if the natural habitat of the Ophidians is the upper atmosphere of a gas giant how could this one survive on Earth? Wouldn’t _our_ atmosphere be poisonous for them?”

Mycroft nodded. “It is; unless they have a human host. Preferably one of high age. They can feed off the entropic energy produced by an aging body and replace it with life energy sucked out of young people, rejuvenating the host in the process,” he glanced at Ianto with interest. “Where have you heard of this?”

“Jack mentioned something once,” Ianto replied. “I believe Torchwood knew about the Ophidian emerging in Delhi. Jack was sent to hunt it down but failed; one of the rare cases he couldn’t capture a dangerous alien on the loose. Now we know why,” he turned to the old man. “You found it first, didn’t you?”

Dr Roylott nodded weakly. “I was... moving my practice... from Calcutta to Delhi, and one day... she was simply there. My butler... a foolish, superstitious native... tried to kill her... called her a _Naga_ demon. I couldn’t allow him... to hurt her. She was so... so very beautiful... so lost. I defended her... and the butler died. I went... went to prison for that... for many years. But she... she found me... and when she bit me for the first time, I felt... I felt such strength flowing from her to me... She never left me… ever since. Kept me alive… and strong…”

“By sucking out the life of other people,” Ianto commented darkly. “How many have there been, doctor? How many had to die so that you could keep on living? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? What kind of godawful parasite _are_ you? I would understand if you were an alien who sees humans as mere cattle. But you’re a human being yourself – or, at least, you _were_ one once!”

“You… can’t understand,” wheezed the old man. “You’re… young. You still have… many years… You don’t… know how… appealing… immortality can be…”

“Oh, believe me, I know what immortality is; better than you can imagine,” Ianto replied in disgust. “It means that you’ll have to watch all those you love grow old and die while you never change yourself. It means knowing that you’ll lose everyone again and again and can’t do anything to prevent it. It means to remain utterly alone in the end, praying for death to take you – and yet living on, whether you want or not.”

He was shaking with long-suppressed emotions. He’d long understood what a burden Jack’s immorality was, and the fact that he now probably shared that burden only made the loss of Jack more painful.

“Of course, you may see it differently,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “To lose a loved one means there _was_ such a person, and you, doctor, don’t strike me as somebody who’d love anyone save himself.”

“That is a most astute conclusion, Mr Jones,“ Mycroft said. “Dr Roylott certainly isn’t a person who would give in to sentiment towards others,” he looked at Martha. “Dr Jones, please do examine him and make a prediction whether he’ll live long enough to face a trial – or, at the very least, a thorough interrogation done by my department.”

“Would that be wise, sir?” Ianto asked. “The public is hardly ready to accept the idea of a transdimensional alien snake that can suck the very life out of people. Covering up the 456 disaster was a nightmare; stories of murderous aliens so soon after _that_ might cause an outbreak of mass hysteria.”

“Which is why _my_ department should be in charge,” Mycroft replied. “They’re well known for _not_ talking to the press, no matter what.”

“But something _has_ to be done about this place,” Ianto warned him. “Mary told us that somewhere in this house dozens of young people are kept against their will, starving and shot up to their eyes with unknown drugs. It _will_ come out, eventually; especially if some of them still have family that cares.”

“True,” Mycroft allowed. “However, Dr Roylott has already built a very convincing disguise for his… activities. In every year, there are scandalous revelations about the one or other cult on some part of the world. Unfortunately, isolating, drugging and malnourishing their members is a common practice among them. We shall sell this to the public as another such case… _including_ the families. What is so funny?” he asked, seeing the mirthless grin hushing across Ianto’s face.

“I was just thinking how lucky we are that Gwen isn’t here,” Ianto chuckled humourlessly. “She’d insist on bringing the families here, to be reunited with their sons and daughters; even if those look like walking skeletons in nightshirts and won’t even recognise their parents.”

“Oh, yes, Ms Cooper-Williams,” Mycroft knew, of course, whom Ianto meant. “The bleeding heart of Torchwood, wasn’t she – unless it came to her own colleagues. I agree with you, Mr Jones; we’re much better off without her and her so-called humanity. Besides,” he added dryly, “I’m not even human, so what would I need her for?”

“Sometimes I’d like to gift her upon the Doctor as a companion,” Ianto mused. “It would be a match made in Heaven: he’d have a cheap replacement of Rose-bloody-Tyler – an even cheaper one than the true item – and she’d have somebody to berate all the time; somebody who couldn’t escape.”

“Your cruel streak surprises me time and again, Mr Jones,” Mycroft turned to Martha. “Well, my dear? What’s your predicament?”

“There’s nothing I can do; or any other doctor, for that matter,” she replied. “He’s basically dying of old age, and there’s no help for _that_ ; not on Earth anyway. Not unless you allow that snake to do its mojo again, and somehow I don’t think you’re willing to do that.”

“No,” Mycroft said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Anthea will see that he’s taken to a private clinic, where my people will extrude any information he can still give us. Then we’ll deal with the situation here, in the house. How long, do you think, does he have left?”

“Perhaps a day or two, tops,” Martha replied. “Rapid aging is always tricky to predict – not that I’d have had such a case before.”

“Then we’ll better hurry,” Mycroft sent the orders to Anthea’s BlackBerry. “We should clean up here before my brother finds a way to escape the house, comes here with Dr Watson in tow and stumbles over any evidence he isn’t supposed to see.”

~TBC~


	17. The Killing Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter may contain some disturbing mental images.

**PART 17 – THE KILLING FIELDS**

A few phone calls later (courtesy of Anthea and Ianto, respectively) the hibernating Ophidian was placed in a stasis box and sent on its way to the high-security UNIT lab in Baskerville.

At the same time an ambulance arrived, gathered Dr Roylott and took him to another secret facility – this time a high-security prison, disguised as a psychiatric hospital. It seemed unlikely that he’d live longer than a couple of weeks, but Mycroft wanted him isolated and under surveillance all the time. There was no way to tell what other dark secrets the man might still be hiding.

Next to arrive was a platoon of UNIT soldiers, led by Major Erisa Magambo – one of the few UNIT officers cleared after the 456-disaster and promoted as a result – who came to neutralise any potential threat that might lurk within the house yet. It was a modest building, but it had many rooms, every single one of which could have been a trap with more hostile aliens waiting in shadowy corners.

Fortunately, they found nothing of the sort. Just a sorry group of emaciated, skeletal human beings, wearing identical, shapeless robes or rough, undyed linen – the closest thing to a hair shirt that could be found in the twenty-first century. There were almost three dozen of them – thirty-four, to be accurate – and every single one of them looked old enough to be at death’s door.

They seemed almost identical, just like their robes. Their eyes were huge in their pallid, cadaverous faces, parchment-like skin stretched tight across jutting cheekbones, shrunk mouths almost lipless, their hair grey and thinning, their long fingernails bent and yellowed on the end of claw-like, bony fingers. They looked more like ghosts than like living people.

They also seemed to be afraid to leave their Spartan little cells, the furniture of which consisted of a thin, hard mattress, a washstand and nothing else, outside of “the appointed time”, as they said in weak protest. Apparently, they’d been conditioned to go nowhere but the meditation room and the refectory, where they had been give a frugal meal once a day.

Unless they’d been ordered to a private meeting with the Shastri Mohashai, their guru – meaning Dr Roylott, of course. That was something they all seemed to dread very much, though they had clearly no actual memories of such meetings. Nor seemed they remember their original names; the Hindu names assigned to them stood written on their cell door.

Based on the long list of names on each door, the occupants changed fairly often.

“Not surprising, if they’ve aged prematurely by the way of life being literally sucked out of them,” Major Magambo commented. “But why the memory loss? Was there some kind of mind-wipe; or that Retcon stuff Torchwood liked to use so much?”

“I’d rather say old-age dementia,” Martha replied. “They also might have gone slightly mad. The human brain is not made to deal with the trauma of aging decades on a single day. Which is probably why they’re all drugged up to the eyeballs: to keep them calm and pliant.”

“But where are the rest of them?” Magambo asked. “Look at the names on those doors: hundreds must have lived here during the last decade or two. Where _are_ they?”

“Dead, most likely,” Ianto said grimly, making notes on his PDA device; Magambo had never met him in person, so he could afford to show himself.

“Probably, yes, but what have they done with the corpses?” Magambo insisted. “ _Somebody_ would have noticed if they had coffins taken out of the house on a monthly basis or so. And there isn’t a garden or anything where they could have buried them… _or_ a crematorium to burn them.”

“They’re in the basement,” a young voice said behind their backs.

Magambo whirled around, gun on the ready, before the newcomer could finish speaking. The others followed suit, albeit a little more slowly, to see source of that piece of unexpected information.

It was a young boy, perhaps sixteen years of age and clearly of Indian origins. His head was shaved and he was wearing the same rough, undyed linen robe as the others. Unlike them, though, he seemed healthy and strong – save for his dilated pupils that revealed the influence of drugs.

He was very obviously afraid – small wonder with an unknown soldier aiming at him with a pistol – but not panicking. Not very much, in any case.

“Major, I don’t really think you’d need that gun,” Martha said gently. She stepped closer to the boy, showing him her empty hands to signal that she meant no harm.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And where have you come from? I thought we’d found everyone in the house.”

“My… my name is Jadgit,” the boy replied, his voice trembling just a little. “I… I used to come to Miss Mira’s shop, for spices. My Mum needs them for her belly aches. They can be real bad sometimes.”

“How did you end up as a member of the sect, then?” Ianto asked. “You can’t have been here for long – you are still strong and hale.”

“It was a week ago… I think,” the boy frowned. “It’s hard to keep track on time here. I came to fetch the spices for Mum when I was called into the house to help with moving some furniture. I thought nothing by it, even hoped for a tip, although Miss Mira tried to send me away. I went in… and they grabbed me. Pressed some cloth against my mouth and nose. It smelled really bad, and I passed out.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Good grief, who does still use chloroform?”

“Dr Roylott’s cronies, apparently,” the Major looked at the boy. “What happened then?”

“When I came by, I was like this,” the boy pointed at his bald head and the robe he was wearing. “I could hear the others speak; they thought I was still out cold. They said I’d be _initiated_ that evening… I didn’t like the sound of that, so I hit them over the head with the washbasin that stood in my cell – it was heavy enough to knock them out – and run. Only that I couldn’t find a way out.”

“You knocked out grown people, on your own?” Martha couldn’t help but being impressed.

The boy shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? They’re weak like kittens…. And I’ve learned to stand up to bullies at school. I’m pretty strong.”

“Good for you,” Ianto said. “But what did you mean the dead are in the basement? In coffins?”

“Nah, in urns. Or rather in one big urn,” the boy explained. “That’s where they’re put when they turn to dust.”

“You mean ashes?” Magambo asked. The boy shook his head.

“No; real, honest dust.”

“Don’t be silly,” Magambo said. “This is not some kind of vampire movie. People don’t just turn to dust. No way.”

The boy shrugged again. “They do it here. I saw it with my own eyes. One of the oldest ones died four days ago… and simply turned to dust. His clothes didn’t. The others swept him together and brought to the urn in the basement.”

“Actually, that would make sense,” Martha said thoughtfully. “The rapid aging could mean that the body tissue would go through an accelerated mummification process as well, hence – dust.”

Magambo shuddered. “Not the mental image I needed, thanks. But if they collect all the remains in the same urn, identifying the victims will be near impossible, I’m afraid.”

“Or, at least, long and arduous work,” Mycroft said. He’d finished the examination of Dr Roylott’s papers and joined them for a quick progress report. “We’ll have to do it nonetheless.”

“Why?” Magambo asked. “It’s not so as if we could tell their families the truth.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “But it will help us to solve a great deal of missing person’s cases and unburden the police considerably. We’ll send the remains to Baskerville, in a sealed container. They have the means to do the identification in no time.”

“The police can do it,” Magambo said dismissively.

“True; but their DNA-labs are already overworked. Besides, _if_ the remains contain any residual Artron energy, which I strongly believe they will, I don’t want the police to become suspicious and start asking questions about things that are nowhere their business. That would be… inconvenient.”

“To put it mildly,” Magambo nodded; then she looked at the boy. “What are we gonna do with him?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Mr Jones will take his testimony, give him a cup of his excellent tea and then take him home to his mother. She will, no doubt, be overjoyed to have him back.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto returned to Mycroft’s townhouse several hours later, impeccably clad as always but visibly tired.

“How did things go with the boy?” Mycroft asked.

“It was smooth sailing, sir,” Ianto suppressed a yawn. “Retcon worked like a charm; I only needed to remove a few facts, since we’re going with the abusive cult cover story anyway. Fortunately, he’s in no way damaged. The drugs would be flushed from his system in no time, and he’ll be reasonable enough never to touch any of them voluntarily, I think.”

“That’s good,” Mycroft said. “Now, we’ll only have to deal with the rest of the survivors… and to sell the cover story to my brother and Dr Watson, of course.”

“I don’t envy you for that, sir,” Ianto grimaced. “As for the survivors, I do have a suggestion, though.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. Basically, they’re not so different from the Rift victims we used to have in Cardiff; still haven, in fact. So, why don’t we treat them as Rift victims?”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “The idea does have its merits, Mr Jones. The only problem is: how am I going to sell it to Sherlock and John?”

“ _And_ to Ms Morstan,” Ianto added with emphasis. “Don’t forget, sir, she might even know some of the victims. But I’ve got any reason to believe in your powers of persuasion. I’m sure you can do it.”

“I wish I had your faith in my abilities,” Mycroft muttered, but he knew Ianto was right. This was his story to tell and nobody could do it for him.”

~TBC~


	18. Official Denial

  
**PART 18 – OFFICIAL DENIAL**

“So, is it over then?” asked Mary Morstan two days later, still a little doubtfully.

The Watsons and Homeses gathered in 221B, waiting for Mycroft to explain them the background of the recent events. Mary was wearing a decent, crème-coloured skirt suit with a dark red silk blouse, purchased on the previous day with Martha’s assistance. She had let her long, shiny hair down and her expressive eyes were rimmed with black mascara. She also wore a discreet shade of peach lip-gloss.

She looked very different from the timid, tradition-bound woman Sherlock and Ianto had met in the _Spice Bazaar_ , but every bit as beautiful – or perhaps even more so, now that she could afford to be her true self again. She and John were sitting on the sofa, holding hands.

Mycroft nodded. ”It _is_ over, Ms Morstan, don’t worry. Your stepfather won’t last much longer, now that he’s cut off from his supply of illegal drugs, and we’re about to roll up all his dubious businesses... and there are quite a few of those, let me tell you.”

“The drugs,” Sherlock said darkly.

“The sect,” John added. “All those mislead young idiots whose money he took and then drugged them up and let them starve.”

“My sister,” Mary said, her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Aunt Honoria. Perhaps even Mum.”

“Not to mention yourself,” Mycroft reminded her. “Your inheritance, your marriage – your entire _life_.”

“At least I’m still alive,” Mary replied soberly. “So, the speckled band that my poor sister saw… it was just a snake?”

“Not just any snake,” Mycroft corrected. “It was a swamp adder; the deadliest snake in India. You’d have died within ten seconds after being bitten.”

“The idea of using a form of poison that can’t be discovered by a superficial chemical test was one that would occur to a clever and ruthless man who’s lived in the East for a long time,” Sherlock added thoughtfully. “The rapidity with which such poisons take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage; as would the short time needed for the victim’s body to absorb the poison completely. Even if a sharp-eyed coroner would spot the small puncture wounds where the poison fangs had done their work, traces of the poison could only be discovered if one knew exactly what to look for. The death would appear to be a natural one and nobody would see any reason to suspect foul play.”

Mycroft have him one of his trademark pinched smiles. “Glaringly obvious, isn’t it?”

“Embarrassingly so,” Sherlock agreed. “Barely a six.”

“Well, I’m sorry that the deaths of Mary’s mother, sister and aunt weren’t stimulating enough for you arrogant geniuses,” John snapped indignantly but Mary gave his slightly trembling left hand a soothing squeeze.

“Leave it, John. They’re not like us; they can’t possibly understand. Be grateful that they were quick enough to save me… and those poor, mislead souls that my stepfather had managed to ensnare,” she turned to Mycroft. “What will happen with the surviving sect members?”

“First they’ll come to a hospital where they’ll be treated for severe malnourishment,” Mycroft replied. “Then those who still have family and whose minds haven’t been completely destroyed by the drugs may return home if that’s what they wish.”

“And the others?” John asked quietly.

Mycroft sighed. “They’ll live out their lives – what’s left of it, as the prognosis isn’t promising – in a mental institution where they’ll be cared for and protected from any possible danger… including themselves.”

“What sort of institution?” John inquired.

“Two different places, actually,” Mycroft explained. “Those with the slightest chances even of partial recovery will be brought to _Providence Park_ – a psychiatric hospital in Cardiff, specialised for such cases. The rest will have to go to a mental asylum on Flat Holm Island, I’m afraid. Quite a few of them are already too far gone to be saved.”

“A mental asylum?” Mary shivered. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

Mycroft gave her a condescending smile.

“I assure you, Ms Morstan, that it is a decent place, with a highly dedicated staff. The picture certain films like to make about such institutions for the sake of what they call ‘drama’ is grossly exaggerated. I’ve personally visited both places, several times and without announcing my visit, and can guarantee that these unfortunate people will be treated well.”

“I’d prefer to be the judge of that myself,” John said, his jaw set. Mycroft shook his head.

“And I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Dr Watson… unless you’d be willing to pay the asylum regular visits. The residents have a meticulously worked out daily routine – the only thing that still holds them to the shards of their sanity. Random interruptions could destroy the meagre results of years of patient labour.”

“If that’s what it takes then yes, I can visit regularly,” John returned, not quite willing to back off just yet.

Mary squeezed his hand again. “No, you can’t, and you know that. I’ve read your blog in the few days I’ve spent here. I know what kind of life you lead. What if Sherlock gets a case and needs you? You _would_ leave anything else you’re doing and run off with him at a moment’s notice. That’s what you _do_ – both of you.”

She turned to Mycroft again. “ _I can_ do it, though. I can pick a day on which I don’t open the shop and go to Cardiff instead. Perhaps seeing a familiar face would help; and I’d like to make amends for the things my stepfather did to them.”

“What a sentimental nonsense!” Sherlock huffed. “You’re not responsible for Dr Roylott’s crimes any more than I’d be for the atrocious behaviour of my brother. You were a prisoner in that shop of yours – and you want to _keep_ it? What for?”

“It has always been my livelihood, and my regular customers count on me,” Mary answered calmly. “Now that I can run it as I see fit will be a great relief. And I _am_ responsible, at least partially. My shop was the door through which the victims of my stepfather entered his area of influence. I failed to warn them off; I’d like to help them now, in whatever manner it’s possible – and I do have the time, if nothing else.”

“But are you also prepared to face whatever you might see on Flat Holm?” Mycroft asked seriously. “The people living there have been to Hell and back; some of them are odd, others are downright frightening. Even the personnel come to the brink of their endurance from time to time.”

“One more reason why they should get some help,” Mary said. “I’m strong enough to face whatever there is once a month, I think. And I need a new purpose in my life – one beyond simple survival.”

“I hoped I’d be able to offer you an alternative,” John said in a soft, hurt voice.

Mary squeezed his hand again.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, John. I’m more than willing to give us a second chance. But this is something I need to do for myself, don’t you see? For too long have I lived passively, simply reacting to other people’s actions. I’d like to take the initiative for a change… to do something positive, something useful.”

She looked at Mycroft again. “Please, Mr Holmes; I _know_ I can do this!”

Mycroft didn’t answer at once. Allowing Mary to visit Flat Holm regularly wasn’t without risks. She might pick up things about the Rift victims that couldn’t be explained without revealing the full truth, which could prove disastrous, especially as she’d been fed drugs by Dr Roylott for years and therefore it was hard to tell just how stable _her_ mental state was.

On the other hand, Helen and the others could indeed use the help of somebody who was well-versed in mediation techniques and aroma therapy, had a soothing presence and was willing to give some of her time to those unfortunates on a regular basis. And if John, too, could be roped in later… well, having a steady doctor for the inmates, even one that didn’t live there permanently, could prove useful.

Especially if – _when_ – the Doctor reverted to himself and John chose not to go with him, gallivanting across the universe. A new purpose would come in handy for the good doctor, then.

“You understand that I can’t make the decision on my own in this matter, don’t you?” he finally said. “I’m merely the one who provides the financial means to keep the asylum running. But I’ll speak to the curator and the leader of Flat Holm on your behalf and give you an answer in the shortest possible time.”

He didn’t doubt that Ianto – who’d taken over full responsibility for Flat Holm after Captain Harkness’s departure – would welcome Mary’s help. And if Ianto approved, Helen would agree, too. They might have actually made something good out of the Roylott disaster, after all.

~TBC~


	19. Sanctuary

**PART 19 – SANCTUARY**

Revisiting Cardiff was always bittersweet for Ianto. The memories of his time with Torchwood Three were mostly fairly horrible: hiding Lisa in the basement, the fairies, nearly getting eaten by cannibals, the Weevils, Cell 114, John Hart, Jack's insane brother (and wasn't it horrible of him to be glad that the destruction of the Hub had, at least rid them of said brother?) the repeated deaths of Jack and Suzie, the not-quite-death of Owen, the loss of Tosh... death and destruction so many levels he didn't even care to count.

Including his own, in two different cases, neither of which stuck.

But there had also been good things: the joys of discovery and knowledge in the Archives, the friendship with Tosh and, of course, Jack, who'd needed him and even loved him in his broken and imperfect way, and who had unknowingly passed on his gift – or curse, depending on one's point of view – of immortality to him.

Ianto still didn't know if it would stick; or if he truly _wanted_ it to stick. But being in Cardiff made him miss Jack more than he already did.

And it made him feel guilty, knowing that Rhi and her family were still mourning for him. But he could not return, not yet. Not until the mastermind behind the destruction of Torchwood was found and dealt with. Right now, it was nothing but a name: Moriarty. And until then, Ianto was better off dead.

At least Rhi and the children had got the money he'd never found the time to spend; the funds he'd set up for the kids, so that life was a bit easier for them, than before, even if only financially.

He drove Mary Morstan and the future inmates of Flat Holm from London to Cardiff by car- not his own but one of the anonymous vans kept by Mycroft's office, registered on a fake owner. He didn't dare to sit on the train for hours, even though he was wearing a perception filter, disguised as a belt buckle. Too many people knew him in Cardiff; he could always run into somebody who didn't know about his supposed death and so the perception filter might fail him.

To complete his disguise, he also wore jeans and a hoodie instead of his trademark tailored suits and a pair of glasses he didn't actually need but that changed the overall impression of his face more than the two-day-stubble.

He drove directly to the bay, parked the car in the garage kept for this sole purpose, and then they went to look for the boat. It was waiting for them already – unsurprisingly, since Ianto had called in advance – a small, blue-and-white striped vessel, with an unexpectedly spacious cabin that looked like the inside of an ambulance, and a stocky, bearded Welshman at the steering wheel.

"A... most unusual boat," Mary commented softly while helping the almost catatonic patients board the vessel. She, too, was clad in faded jeans and one of John's jumpers, her hair twisted into a tight knot and hidden under a loosely-wrapped cashmere shawl.

"My former boss had it custom-made when I was still working for the Cardiff branch of our agency," Ianto explained."We've been bringing people here for years, haven't we, Captain Madog?"

The boatsman just nodded, his square jaw working noiselessly. The romantic in Mary wanted to believe that he was chewing tobacco, like in those old-fashioned pirate novels, but it was more likely gum in these days. It still seemed very... authentic, matching his stereotypical sea wolf image well.

"Can we set off, Mr Jones?" he then asked in his low, rumbling voice, and Ianto nodded.

"Whenever you're ready, Captain."

"You're using your real name?" Mary asked when they were well on their way to Flat Holm Island and two of the weakest patients had stopped being seasick. "I thought you were in some sort of witness protection program, presumably dead."

"I am," Ianto agreed."But every third person in Wales is called Jones; and simply using the full form of my name – which is Ifan – was easier than get used to a completely new one. I have to be more careful in Cardiff, of course; I come from here and many people used to know me; hence the disguise. It's worked well enough for the last couple of years," he knocked on the wooden bulkhead of the cabin superstitiously, "but those are no guarantees. That's why I only come to Cardiff to visit Flat Holm."

"What about cosmetic surgery?" Mary suggested. "Wouldn't you be safer with a new face?"

"Perhaps," Ianto allowed. He _had_ thought about it, for the very reason Mary had just mentioned. But the thought of Jack not recognising him was more than he could possibly bear. "But I didn't want to be somebody else. Not even for my own safety."

"Does anybody know, save for Mr Holmes?"

"Anthea, of course. _And_ Helen, the head nurse of the asylum. She'd known me before I entered Mr Holmes's employ, so trying to fool her would have been hopeless. But they're the only ones. Not even Mr Holmes's brother knws what I did here, in Cardiff... or who I was. And neither did my own sister."

"And the curator of the asylum?" Mary asked.

Ianto smiled at her. " _I am_ the curator of the asylum. My former boss bestoved the job upon me cos he knew I was methodical and good with details. Mr Holmes simply let me continue."

In the meantime they reached the island and moored at the single wooden jetty. Captain Madog threw a wooden plank across the boat's railing and helped them with getting their passengers to the land.

"The usual trip, Mr Jones?"he then asked.

Ianto shook his head. "No, I'm afraid we'll need a bit longer this time. Your next supply run is tomorrow, right?" the boatsman nodded. "We'll stay the nght, then, and return to the mainland with you tomorrow."

Captain Madog nodded his understanding, and the little boat left a few minutes later. Mary used the time to take in her surroundings. The island seemed largely empty, save for the harsh beauty of untouched nature around them – and the lighthouse a short distance in front of them.

"Where is the asylum?" she asked.

"Not far," Ianto replied, "but we need to make a short walk. It can't be seen from here; and most of it is underground anyway. Originally, it was built as a sanatorium for cholera patients in 1896 as the isolation hospital for the port of Cardiff, but don't let your first impression mislead you. We've done a great deal of work here, and while security is still an important factor, we did our best to make life for the inmates as comfortable as possible."

At a slow yet steady pace, so that their charges could keep up, they walked by the lighthouse that looked as if cut off some postcard, towards the middle of the island. Here and there they saw abandoned buildings, mostly concrete ones from the  
WWII era or even earlier, made of brick. They passed the ruins of the cholera hospital, which had been left untouched for disguise, and turned onto a narrow concrete path between two low hills.

The path abruptly led them to a massive iron door, complete with security cameras and retina and fingerprint scanner under the doorbell button. Ianto stepped in front of the scanner and leaned closer to allow it to do its job. Then he pressed his thumb at the touchpad of the fingerprint scanner and waited.

A moment later there was a metallic _clang_. The door slid to the side and on the threshold stood a large, dark-skinned woman, smiling at them tiredly but in a friendly manner.

"Mr Jones!" she beamed and hugged Ianto spontaneously."How good to see you again! It's been too long!"

"I know; I'm sorry, Helen," Ianto hugged her back."It's not as easy to get away from London as it used to be when I still worked in Cardiff. Let me introduce you to Ms Mary Morstan; she's the aroma therapist I told you about. She's also known the new inmates for years, so she'll prove helpful while they're settling down. Or so we hope."

"Welcome to Flat Holm Island," Helen shake hands with Mary."Mr Jones and I have a few financial problems to discuss, but my husband can show you the facilities and introduce you to the rest of the staff while our new residents are settled into their rooms. We can all meet for lunch afterwards, and we'll try to answer any questions you might have."

Mary was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of being left alone in the asylum, with only a mans he'd never seen before as her guide, but since Ianto didn't seem concerned, she agreed. She'd _asked_ for this, after all. And she'd come here regularly in the future on her own or – hopefully – with John as company. She _could_ do this.

"There's no time like the present," she said bravely and followed the gentle-faced, bald man – built like a professional wrestler – to the unknown depths of the underground facility.

~TBC~


	20. Rebound

**PART 20 – REBOUND**

After her visit to Flat Holm, Mary returned to London and reopened the _Spice Bazaar_ , to the general relief and delight of her regular clientele. Mr Kher, Kwesi and his girlfriend Myisha (who had such a haunting resemblance to the late Lisa Hallett that it nearly broke Ianto’s heart whenever they ran into each other in the spice shop), Shaheen, Jadgit’s mother (who was deliriously happy indeed to have her son back, largely undamaged) and all the others were all too happy to have their Mira and her healing spices back.

Even if it was a bit hard for them to get used to call her Mary now.

Mycroft’s people had gone through both the shop and the entire house with the fine-toothed comb, removing everything that even remotely looked like either unknown substances or alien technology – not that Mary would have known about the latter.

Mycroft also looked into Dr Roylott’s finances and realised with mild surprise that even if the survivors got their money back, Mary would be reasonably wealthy once her stepfather died. Which was only a matter of time by the speed his inner organs were shutting down, one after another.

Since Dr Roylott had expected to live on infinitely with the help of his alien pet, he had no last will. That meant Mary would inherit everything: the house, the shop, the funds, the shares in various other businesses, most of them – surprisingly enough – legal. Dr Roylott had been around for nearly two hundred years and he had been a shrewd and cautious businessman. He had accumulated a considerable wealth in those long years.

“I took the liberty to extract for you full power of attorney regarding the finances of the family, my dear,” Mycroft told Mary amiably. “Seeing that Dr Roylott no longer has his mental facilities intact, you’ll have full access to all the money that does not go back to the families of his victims. Do you have any idea what you want to do with it?”

Mary shrugged, a little uncertainly. They were gathered in her private chambers above the spice shop, where she’d treated them to an authentic, home-made Indian dinner that even Sherlock found excellent enough to have seconds (which he _never_ had, as a rule), and were now discussing the future by fragrant Darjeeling, served in paper-thin china bowls rather than in cups. Mary was wearing her traditional Indian garb again – not because she had to but because she now had the freedom to do so if she chose. It was liberating.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. "Julia was the book-keeper of the family. I’m afraid I’m hopeless when it comes to money, and it would be disrespectful to spend it unwisely.”

“Disrespectful?” Ianto, who’d also been invited, raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Towards whom?”

“The people my stepfather took it from in earlier times,” Mary replied. “The ones who’re long dead and can no longer be compensated for their losses.” She turned to Mycroft.”Can you suggest me somebody who can deal with it, sir? I want to use it for a good purpose, but I have no idea where to begin.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft looked sideways at Ianto. ”Mr Jones, are you interested in the challenge? You and Ms Morstan will be working together concerning Flat Holm anyway.”

Ianto hesitated for a moment. He already worked for three, dealing with Mycroft’s projects and with what could be saved from Torchwood and frankly, that was more than enough. On the other hand, Mary was a good person, with money she intended to use for a good purpose, so she deserved some help.

Besides, it was a challenge, and Ianto liked challenges.

“It depends,” he replied carefully.”Let’s deal with first things first. What are your intentions with the house, Ms Morstan? It’s obviously too big for you alone, and now that it’s lost its original purpose, no matter how twisted _that_ was, it will only be a burden.”

“I was thinking of holding aroma therapy sessions in what used to be the common meditation room,” Mary answered thoughtfully. “I even thought of hiring a yoga teacher so that the dojo wold be used according to its actual purpose. It is fully equipped, after all. And I was hoping to find a doctor to take over my stepfather’s private practice,” she added, giving John a shy smile.

John shook his head. ”I’m not an ayurveda healer, Mary. “

“I know,” she said. “Neither was my stepfather, not really. That’s not what I meant. There’s no GP in the neighbourhood, and the people who live there desperately need one. One that would respect them, even though they’re neither rich, nor important.”

John became suspiciously thoughtful and for a moment Ianto could see honest panic flickering across Sherlock’s face, only to be ruthlessly suppressed at once. The Doctor had never functioned well on his own, and being in human disguise didn’t change that fact a bit. So it was understandable that both Holmes brothers held their breath in anxiety while waiting for John’s decision.

“I can’t run a full-time practice on my own,” the doctor finally said. “Sherlock needs me to help him with The Work,” the capital letters were clearly audible here. “Other doctors can take over Dr Rolylott’s practice; doctors that won’t be able to work with Sherlock.”

If Mary was disappointed, she hid it well. The utter relief on Sherlock’s face, on the other hand, was barely veiled.

“Indeed, John, you’re probably the only one who can work with my little brother in the long run,” Mycroft agreed smoothly, his expression remarkably similar to that of a cat that had just got into the cream.

“Perhaps you can work out a compromise,” Ianto suggested, studiously ignoring the annoyed looks of both Holmeses. He was firmly on Mary’s side – and, consequently, on John’s side – in their domestic little power play, and he wasn’t afraid to go against the wishes of the almighty Mycroft Holmes if he had to.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered – but John showed definite interest. Considering that he still loved his ex-wife, it wasn’t really surprising.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed huff.

“You don’t have to run the practice alone, Dr Watson,” Ianto explained. “I’m sure Dr Jones would love to take regular shifts; she’s been complaining lately that she doesn’t have enough chance to qualify herself as a GP. And when her fiancé, Dr Milligan, comes back from Africa around the end of the summer, he’d need a steady job, soon.”

John’s ears perked up hearing that name. “You mean Tom Milligan? The one who’s spent the last four years or so with _Médecins Sans Frontiers_?”

“You know him?” Ianto asked in surprise.

John nodded. “We used to work together at A&E before I would join the Army. He is a decent bloke and a very good doctor. Has his priorities where they ought to be.All right, if you can talk them into this shared practice thing, I’m in, too.”

“John!” Mycroft and Sherlock exclaimed in unison. Even their tone was completely identical. In a different situation it would have been hilarious.

John shook his head again. “Leave it, Sherlock. I’m not abandoning you or The Work. You’re my friend, and I actually enjoy our insane lifestyle. But I’m not abandoning Mary, either, now that I’ve found her again. And I’m not letting the chance to do some steady work, where I can be my own boss, slipping through my fingers.”

“Treating hangnails and snotty noses, how boring!” Sherlock said scathingly.

John’s eyes grew a little colder. “Well, I’m a doctor; that’s what doctors do. We can’t be all mad geniuses with a rich and powerful family to watch our back. Besides, Mary got here first. Hers is the older claim.”

“She _divorced_ you, while you were in Afghanistan!” Sherlock pointed out nastily.

Mary stiffened, but John gave her knee a gentle pat.

“That wasn’t exactly her choice, and you know that, Sherlock. Don’t be such a child! I’ve got her back now, and that’s great. We don’t know what will come out of this, but we’re trying to keep an open mind. Oh, and Mycroft?” he added, giving the British Government an icy glare. "Should anything... unfortunate happen to her. I’ll be out of here and back to the next best war zone, never to return, faster than Sherlock could say ‘obvious’. Just to make things very clear. Do we understand each other?”

“Of course, John, but I’d never,” Mycroft began indignantly.

“Oh yes, you would,” John interrupted. “So I’m warning you: don’t! This is _my_ life; and it’s _my_ decision whom I share it with. Not yours. Not Sherlock’s. If either of you want to be part of it, you’ll have to let it be _my_ choice. Otherwise we’re done with each other.”

The identical expressions of shock on the faces of both Time Lords were so funny that Ianto had a really hard time to remain serious.

Suddenly, he was no longer concerned what might happen with John Watson, should the Doctor revert to his true self. Ex-husband and Army veteran, Dr John Hamish Watson was more than capable of taking care of himself. Especially with his beautiful and courageous ex-wife on his side again.

~Te End – for now~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this particular installment. “Interlude #2 – The Diary” is coming up,soon.


End file.
